


Sunday Adoribull Prompts

by maliwanhellfire



Series: Prompts [1]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Angst, Grief, I hope I don't get jossed, M/M, Some AUs, Spoilers for trespasser in chapter 13, Spoilers for trespasser in chapter 14, Sunday Prompts, Torture, ableist language in chapter 18, angst in chapter 10, angst is in chapter 2, better living through cats, better living through headcanons, character death in chapter 2, comical reference to self harm in chapter 8, might not be for everyone, nsfw chapter 16, other chapters are pretty chill, physical harm in chapter 10, references to sex in chapter 7, torture is in chapter 2
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-09
Updated: 2015-09-28
Packaged: 2018-04-13 19:33:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 20
Words: 20,546
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4534590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maliwanhellfire/pseuds/maliwanhellfire
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter 16: Bull gets it on with a bellydancer named Diego<br/>Chapter 17: More Mist Dorian<br/>Chapter 18: Four thousand god damn words of a How To Train Your Dragon AU. With Eustace.<br/>Chapter 19: Drunk Dorian wants a tattoo on his ass<br/>Chapter 20: Bull and Dorian's first fight from the How To Train Your Dragon AU.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Any pets they end up owning

**Author's Note:**

> Mist Dorian is in chapters 6, 8, and 17.  
> Little Bull is in chapters 1 and 15.

The value of being loud is that no one expects you when you are quiet. It’s a tenet that Bull lives by, though the nature of it enforces careful use. 

There’s not as much call for it anymore, now he’s settled in Skyhold, so he tends to waste it a bit. Mainly on Dorian. Because it’s funny. If Bull sneaks up on him in the library, there’s even odds he’ll shout so loud it upsets the ravens. Once Dorian threw his book in the air, and tipped over his chair. 

It’s the little things that keep a relationship going, or so Bull believes. 

Like the way Dorian’s brow furrows when he’s thinking hard. How Bull has to stop himself from brushing a kiss against his forehead so the expression smooths out again. He could do it, but Dorian still tends to seize up around public displays of affection. Instead, Bull takes a moment to look at him and enjoy him, before he inevitably sends his darling peacock flying into the rafters.

“I was wondering where you’d got to, little Bull,” Dorian says, and Bull thinks his cover’s blown. 

However, Dorian is not looking at him. Dorian is looking down and a bit to the left, tracking something black and furry as it makes its way to his feet. It only has one ear, and one of its eyes is milky white. Broadly speaking, it is a cat. More specifically, it seems to be some sort of demonic beast, because cats don’t get that big. 

Bull’s ten feet away and he can hear the thing purring. Dorian puts his book down and the creature jumps into his lap, taking all the real estate and then some. 

“Oof, you’re a big boy, aren’t you?” Dorian asks, rubbing at the cat’s solitary ear. 

Bull’s fairly sure it’s not reasonable to be jealous of animals. It’s a rather odd feeling to have. Of course, the cat then turns to look at him, and growls. Like a dog.

Dorian turns toward him, and if Bull is not mistaken, looks a little embarrassed. 

“Oh, Bull, I didn’t hear you coming up,” Dorian says, pressing lightly but insistently against the cat’s bulk. It does not move. 

“Just wanted to check in,” Bull says. “Wanted to know if you wanted lunch.”

The cat is trying to stare him down. Bull returns the challenge for a few seconds before realizing how ridiculous he’s being. He shakes his head slightly, and looks up, taking in a small carpet of shiny fur before alighting on Dorian again. 

“When did you get a cat?” Bull asks. 

Dorian opens his mouth, and nothing comes out of it, which is a first. His fingers absently card through the cat’s fur as he shrugs. 

Most of the cats around Skyhold are a little careworn, and so is this one, but its pelt is clean and healthy-looking, and it’s not skinny at all. It looks recently cared for. Bull steps closer to it, and it growls again. 

“Oh, there’s no need to be like that,” Dorian says indulgently. “My little…”

Dorian purses his lips, and looks up at Bull. 

“Dorian…” Bull says.

“Yes,” Dorian replies.

“Did you name this cat after me?” He asks. 

The cat’s growls have turned back into purrs, so loud Bull can almost feel the vibration. Now that he’s closer he can see the creature’s scarred nose, and how green the animal’s remaining eye is. Apparently sufficiently bored with Bull’s presence, it rolls over and curls its head into the crook of Dorian’s arm, looking perfectly content. 

Dorian keeps petting it, even as he looks up at Bull with a repentant expression on his face. 

“You’ve got to admit,” He says. “There’s a bit of a resemblance.”

 

—

 

Dorian has been feeding it salmon. 

 

—

 

 _Dorian_  has been feeding it  _salmon_.

 

—

 

“He feeds it salmon,” Bull tells Vivienne, while cleaning his axe. 

“Sensible choice, they need a bit of oil to keep healthy,” She replies. “Raisin quite likes it.”

Little Bull and Raisin have a lot in common, with respect to being broadly a cat. With the broadly being as broad as bloody possible. 

Bull’s never had a pet, exactly. The Qun doesn’t really have them. The animals they had worked in the same way that Qunari do. Perhaps they had a nug or two as children, to see who had an aptitude for that kind of care, but they weren’t for playing with. Nobody named them, except for ease of identification. 

The Inquisitor’s horse is called Princess, and Bull has heard her address the creature by all manner of pet-names besides. Bull had once thought that was a kind of debilitation peculiar to Vashoth, but now he knows better. Anthropomorphizing things is a Southern custom that ends in Madame de Fer requisitioning tiny, fashionable jumpers that coordinate with her outfits. 

“Salmon is people food, Ma’am,” Bull says, on the edge of respectful. 

“Raisin is people,” Vivienne replies. 

 

—

 

Three months later Sera gives Bull a bright pink parrot that swears in Tevene. 

“I get it now!” Bull says enthusiastically.

When he points at the parrot, happily riding his shoulder, it says, “Vishante kaffas!”

Dorian refuses to let it inside his room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's a galah.
> 
> [(has fanart now!)](http://allmuckledup.tumblr.com/post/130266446744/maliwanhellfires-grimark-inspired-by-the-fic)


	2. Revenge

They hold the service on a cool, autumn morning. Mother Giselle leads them all through the rites, and even though no one speaks, it’s still difficult to hear her. There’s a fair amount of weeping, and beneath that the distant screeching of songbirds. Dorian digs his nails into his palms, hands fisted. He keeps his eyes on the pyre, every blink feeling like a wasted moment. Even swaddled in white, his shape is familiar, and Dorian is unwilling to surrender any minute he could have with him. 

His body ebbs and flows with adrenaline. Dorian wants to object, to scream them all into silence, because what they’re doing to him is wrong. You can’t come back from fire, that’s the point. If they burn him there will never be any hope of getting him back. And if they won’t hold from that, they could at least wait for Dorian to go with him. 

Inkuudi keeps her hand clenched on his arm for the entire ceremony, but she is kind enough not to mention it when he jerks forward as the fire is lit. Cremisius cries out when the flames first touch Bull’s body, his face red and wet with tears. Dorian’s eyes are dry. He has no more left to give, and he can only hope that Bull will forgive him for it. The mourning becomes a wail loud enough to carry a lingering spirit to the afterlife. 

 _Quiet,_  Dorian longs to say,  _why do you want him to leave?_

 

—

 

“Do you want me to stay?” Inkuudi asks him, after she walks him to his quarters.

 _Yes,_  Dorian thinks.

“No,” He says. “I just… Need a little time to myself right now.”

“Alright,” She says, and her lip wobbles a little. 

“Thank you for asking,” Dorian replies. 

Grief makes him so  _polite_. It’s awkward, and shameful. He can barely stand himself. He opens his door to avoid more conversation, but only enough so he can slip through. He doesn’t want the Inquisitor to see his room. 

“I’ll come by in the morning,” She says. “I hope you can get some sleep.”

Dorian nods, and lets the door slide closed after she turns away. He lights his lamps with a flint. The last time he tried with magic he only succeeded in melting the iron and glass. There’s a black spot on the wall that he hasn’t been able to get out, let alone the now-cooled mass that dripped onto his floor. He walks over to his desk and leafs through the papers he stole from Cullen’s desk. Guard switch is at three, final patrol at two. If he times it right, he’ll walk right through the door and no one will stop him. They’ll find him on the way out, of course, but he doesn’t care about that. 

He doesn’t bother to wear a coat, when he goes. He can barely feel the cold. Hasn’t felt much of anything since the fire. He breaks the lock to the dungeon with fire and ice, quickly, quietly. He makes his way down to the lowest floor in much the same way. 

Gatt is awake when Dorian finds him, his body unmarred save a bruise or two, though he’s clearly feeling the night-time chill. His clothing is light, and the guards haven’t seen fit to give him a blanket. Dorian thinks that’s cruel. They can’t understand what Gatt has done the way Dorian does, the way the Chargers do. They’re being remiss in their duty. 

“I was wonderin’ if you’d come down to see me,” Gatt says.

His voice is quiet, and Dorian doesn’t know if the elf is resigned or just unmoved. He finds he cares very much for the specifics of how Gatt feels. Does he regret it at all? Does he understand just what he has done? 

“You know who I am?” Dorian asks. 

“I rightly do,” Gatt replies.

“Then you know why I’m here,” Dorian says. 

Gatt nods. 

“I feel like I can’t breathe without him,” Dorian says, and when Gatt opens his mouth, Dorian cuts him off. “And maybe you don’t understand how good he was, or what you did, but you will.”

He feels sick as he says it, his body shaking in fear from what he is about to do. He’s too hollow to resist, too slow to trust that Gatt will get what is coming to him through the proper proceedings. The moral core he worked so hard for crumbles, and his heart barely beats, like he’s dying far too slowly. 

Dorian breathes and purple whisps escape his mouth. It’s unshaped magic but it still makes Gatt jump. 

He used to do it from time to time with Bull, and Bull had called him  _Ataashi_. 

 _My magnificent one,_  he’d said. 

Dorian gathers power into his hands, he feels the Fade and wonders if Bull is closer to him, if he sees and objects. He doesn’t know, and he’ll never know. He thinks his worst and then goes further. 

He hopes Cremisius will forgive him, for taking this. 

“I’m almost sorry for how badly I am going to hurt you,” Dorian says, throat sore. Unfortunately, there’s a whole world there, in that ‘almost’.

He lets his horror go slowly, in smoking, weaving tendrils. When Gatt starts screaming, he never quite manages to stop. Dorian ignores the guards and the whispers from the Fade, the scrape of almost-fingers against his spirit. They will all have to wait for quiet to ring out. 

After that, they can have him. 


	3. Kissing on the Battlements

Breen had been to Skyhold before; every schoolchild in Ferelden and Orlais had taken a field trip there at some point. It wasn’t the most architecturally impressive landmark, but its historical and magical significance made it a world heritage site. The Inquisition of the Dragon Age was simultaneously one of the best documented and most contested periods for the keep. Scores of letters and research and official records had survived to the modern age. All of it contradictory. How could it be anything but, with so many players? 

But maybe not forever, if Breen had her way. 

 

“We’ve had to do some maintenance in recent years,” The director said. “But the Battlements are perfectly safe. You just have to be a little careful of the wind, it gets fierce up here sometimes.”

“Thank you,” Breen replied. “It means a lot to me to have access to these parts of the castle, I’m really excited about what I might find.”

“There might be a lot of downtime to sort through… But far be it from me to discourage you. I look forward to hearing about your findings.”

“You’ll be the first to hear of them,” Breen said, laying out her equipment and readying her focii.

The director left her with a wave, and Breen took a moment to look out over the mountains. She could see houses in the distance, and the roads that curled up and around, leading over into Orlais. Breen took a deep breath, and pulled her document folder from her bag. What she held in her hands was priceless. Authentic correspondence written by the father of time magic, Dorian Pavus of Tevinter. She shivered a little, her nerves shaky since the moment she’d taken them from the history building.

She’d brought letters and notes that had already been digitized, and she’d tried to pick ones that would be less important to other students’ research. She had no plan to lose them, but she was taking them out into the world, and worse than that she was going to touch them. 

She rubbed her fingers over with an alcohol wipe before sitting down. She pressed the record button on her camera, and then pressed her index finger against the first note. It was a short, terse missive to a Varric who was most likely Varric of Tethras. Pavus disparaged Tethras’ writing skill, and threatened him with grievous bodily harm should he publish his, at that time, most recent work. Most scholars described their relationship as antagonistic and incendiary, but Breen wasn’t sure that was so. 

Breen reached out into the fade, and threaded her magic through the letter and the focii she had collected; all made of bone, to better resonate with a known necromancer. She reached forward and through, forging a connection that was anchored in physical space. The fade did not so much split as it did part, and Breen worked quickly, warding the path and letting it funnel out so she could see in but nothing could get through. 

It had taken two hundred years to get to the point of making such a portal. Dorian Pavus had crafted a spell to carry him through time and space by the time he was thirty, and he’d done it with only one other mage’s help. And of course she couldn’t see a Maker damned thing through her portal, except for a much newer looking set of battlements. 

Breen swore, peering through the portal. She didn’t take her hand off the letter, if she did she’d break the connection, but she did reorient the view with her left hand. The portal was bound to her focii, but it still had a 360 degree range of movement. 

There was a man leaning against the railing, only two metres from where Breen was standing. He had brown skin and short, dark hair, and clothing that was definitely in keeping with Tevinter style during that time period (so many belts). Breen bit down a squeal. The Inquisition had only ever had two Tevinters of note, and Cremisius Aclassi had always been described as pale and tawny-haired. 

Dorian Pavus turned and looked right at her, and Breen shat a metaphorical brick. It was him, it was definitely him, with his curled moustache and beauty mark, eyes rimmed in kohl. He was looking at her, but he couldn’t be, the spell wasn’t designed that way…

“Amatus, what are you doing up here?” Pavus said, and Breen realized he wasn’t looking _at_  her, he was looking  _past_  her. 

“Looking for you,” Came the reply, from a very deep voice. 

Breen checked that the camera was focused properly before looking back. She’d heard reproductions of Dragon Era accents before, but it was still a little difficult to understand them. Both Pavus and his companion were speaking common, but they spoke it very differently. She was sure the linguistics department was going to be very excited. 

Although bugger them, Pavus had said ‘amatus’ and there was barely any record of his romantic life that went beyond innuendo. Maybe there had been once, but by chance or design, it hadn’t survived. 

The portal was obscured by a grey back, and Breen physically had to sit down. She knew those horns. 

“You weren’t in the library,” The Iron Bull said. 

“I needed a break, and you can’t argue with the view…” Pavus replied. 

Breen couldn’t see that far, but if she had a look at the castle schematics later… 

“Hmm,” The Bull replied. “Nobody else up here but us.”

Pavus tilted his head up as The Bull leaned down, their lips touching with all the ease of familiarity. Pavus’ hand came to rest on The Bull’s cheek, and Breen felt incredibly voyeuristic when the kiss deepened, Pavus pulled in closer by The Bull’s hand on his waist. 

Breen screeched, completely uncaring that her reaction was going to be on public record for the rest of her days. Dorian Pavus and The Iron Bull. She’d read some tentative analysis about the two of them during her queer history seminar, but never anything conclusive until…

Until she’d found it. 

And she was possibly going to have to turn the camera off soon, because Pavus’ head was angled towards her and The Bull was sucking on his neck. It was a little bit like finding out her parents had sex based on first principles. 

Breen held her left hand up over her eyes, and then spread her fingers. Pavus was smiling, holding The Bull gently across the back of his neck. His eyes tracked back over towards her, and… And that time he was definitely looking at her. She was looking into the eyes of Dorian Fucking Pavus. 

He shook his head just slightly, and with one hand raised an open palm which tightened into a fist. 

The portal winked out. 

Breen carefully turned the camera off and set it to upload, and then she lay down on the battlements and laughed until tears were streaming from her eyes. She curled her fingers around her horns, needing something to hold on to. She has so much writing to do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry it's not my best but I tried.


	4. Bull and Dorian having a picnic together

Dorian is a little like a whirlwind. Bull had liked that analogy quite a bit when he’d first come up with it, because Dorian could just as easily be a force of nature as he could a harmless puff of air. All sound and fury, signifying nothing. The metaphor has grown a bit since then, has gained an eye that very few people get to see, but Bull has. He knows the quiet, broken places that lie protected, hidden within the storm. 

Being with Dorian is a paradox, because he is wild and he is demanding, but at the center of it all he is easy to please. 

“What are you thinking about?” Dorian asks. 

He’s resting his head on Bull’s lap, and he sounds sleepy and content in a way he rarely does. They’re outside, but they’re far enough from Skyhold that Dorian has let his hackles down. He’s odd that way; he feels safer in a forest full of bears than he does in fortified castle. The bears might try to eat him, but they won’t judge him, and he seems to think the latter would be worse. 

“Bull?” Dorian says, voice a little softer, maybe a little less sure.

“I’m thinking about you,” Bull replies. 

Dorian smacks him lightly, on the thigh. They’d brought cheese and fruit with them on the ride out, then they’d sat on a blanket under a tree, and Dorian had eaten everything without a single word of complaint. The entire time they’d sat shoulder to shoulder. It had been nice. Having Dorian resting against him is nice too. 

Bull runs his finger down Dorian’s cheek, and Dorian smiles at him, and he looks so lovely, and he looks so sweet… And Bull wants to keep him. 

“I suppose I might be thinking about you too,” Dorian says. 

The little stress lines around his eyes have softened, in a way they never do when they’re in the keep. Bull wonders what it would take, to have Dorian look like that all the time. 

Dorian turns his head to the side and kisses Bull’s palm, and it sends a little thrill up into Bull’s chest. He brushes his thumb through Dorian’s hair, and Dorian leans into it, his throat stretching out in an elegant line. 

“You’re so beautiful,” Bull says. 

And Dorian opens his mouth, and he says, “I” and then he says, “oh” instead of all the other things he says when he’s judged by someone outside the storm. Bull doesn’t have words for how he feels, seeing Dorian like this because Dorian finally trusts someone enough for it, and that someone is him. 

Maybe there’s a time on them, on whatever they are, but it feels distant. Unimportant. He’ll probably kick himself later, for being over-serious. He’s never been so sentimental. Dorian’s not the only one unsure of what they’re doing and what it means. 

 “Come down here,” Dorian says, pulling gently on Bull’s hand. 

Bull goes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I tried!!!


	5. Dorian & Bull get their portrait painted

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some abeist language in this one.

Sebastien hates every single person within the Inquisition. Every single one. They have no appreciation for his expertise. They are bald in action and relentlessly forward, and, if he’s being honest, they are also wretchedly inconsiderate. 

“Monsieur Pavus, if you could please keep still,” Sebastien says. 

“Of course, of course,” Pavus replies, straightening but still shaking with barely-suppressed laughter. 

He hates them. With all the passion an Orlesian man has, does he hate them. Unfortunately he loves money and owes many debts, so he’s just going to have to power through it. 

The Bull ( _merde_ ) is doing something distracting in his peripheral vision, and it sets Pavus off again. The human’s face is flush with good humour, which means it looks entirely different to how it did when they’d had their first sitting the day before. He’s not even sitting up anymore, he’s bent over, near weeping with laughter, which is wonderful because now his eyes are shiny and somewhat red. 

Sebastien turns on his heel and points his brush at… Seven feet something of Qunari, clad in shining armour, with a maul at his side. He looks fucking terrifying. Sebastien does not care.

“OUT!” Sebastien screams, feeling the wood of the brush creak in his hand. 

The Bull looks a little chastised, but he still opens his mouth to reply and, no to that. Maker, no, to that.

“GET OUT YOU WRETCHED HORNET!” Sebastien shouts. “YOU STONE IN MY SHOE, THE FLY IN MY BOWL,  _YOU SLACK-JAWED, WITLESS, BLASPHEMING SIMPLETON!”_

The man is actively leaning away from him. 

“That’s a bit har-” The Bull says. 

“OUT!” Sebastien screams, bellows, cries out into the Fade and all its wonders, spooking any demon that had ever come anywhere near him. 

The Bull leaves quickly. 

Sebastien breathes deeply, aware of the sound of Monsieur Pavus apparently rolling…

He looks over his shoulder, and yes, Monsier Pavus is on the ground and laughing so violently that his voice is becoming hoarse. Sebastien hates him, and his red face, and The Bull, and himself. Particularly himself, because when he’d been offered the job he’d been most intrigued by the story of a ‘Vint and an Oxman finding a forbidden love. 

It had all been a lie, apparently they’d been brought together not by some wild affair, but by a mutual love of tormenting portraitists.

Monsieur Pavus is wheezing. 

Sebastien is going to paint them all with buck teeth and vacant expressions. And Dorian’s face is going to be bright red. 

The Bull will be lucky if he escapes with an amusingly shaped codpiece. 


	6. What is that demonic contraption?

Bull finds it at the local markets, in the dollar junk pile on an old lady’s stall. He imagines she doesn’t know what it is, or at least he hopes she doesn’t. He can’t imagine a Vashoth grandmother with more horns than teeth would be setting old relics loose on the general population. 

“Thanks,” He says, laying down a coin and ducking his head after she does the same. 

He leaves after that, turning his purchase over in his hands. Krem finds him at their kitchen table an hour later, staring at it. It’s carved with runes and he’s been reading them, but they don’t make any sense. 

“What on earth is that demonic contraption?” Krem asks, taking a seat beside him. 

“Puzzle box,” Bull says. “A strange one, haven’t seen one so newly made before.”

Krem reaches out, pausing before picking it up. When Bull nods he takes it between his fingers and holds it up into better light. 

“Huh,” Krem says. 

“Huh what?”

“It’s Tevene…” Krem says, almost absently. “Uses a lot of shorthand I remember from when I was a kid, just translated into the ancient tongue.”

Krem hands the box back to Bull, setting it down on the other man’s palm. 

“It’s a ruse,” Krem continues. “Seems like you have to rearrange the tiles to make it work, when really, all you need to do is this…”

Krem pushes the rune on top of the box, wiggling his finger until they both hear a click. Krem nods to himself, then he twists the top of the cube clockwise and the botton anticlockwise. There’s another click, and the runes begin to glow. 

“Krem?” Bull asks.

“Mmm?” Krem replies.

“Did you solve the entire puzzle?”

“Mhm.”

“Before Dalish has had a chance to look at it?”

“Oh.” Krem says. “Sorry. I got a bit excited.”

Bull chucks it out the kitchen window and it explodes right after it lands in Stitches’ prize rosebushes. 

“Not it,” Bull says, because he doesn’t want to be the one to tell him. 

“Fuck.” Krem says. 

 

—

 

When they go outside, there’s a small crater where the garden bed used to be, and the entire thing is filled with black, glittering mist. Bull’s not sure what it is, but he’s not surprised it’s from Tevinter. It’s exactly the sort of thing ‘Vints would make. 

It also seems to be moving. 

“It was nice knowing you,” Bull says, clapping a hand on Krem’s shoulder and pushing him forward. 

“I’m not going into that,” Krem replies. 

“I want my box back.”

“I want to live!”

The smoke twists a little, becoming more dense and curling in on itself. It stills when Bull and Krem stop speaking. 

“It’s listening,” Bull says quietly, and the smoke shifts again, in response. 

“I think maybe we should get the silverite and the flamethrower, how about you?” Krem asks. 

“Please don’t,” A third voice says. 

It’s quiet and sardonic, and if Bull’s not mistaken, aristocratic. It’s also coming directly from the hole. 

Bull nods his head towards the kitchen door, and Krem pads off towards it. The surface of the mist ripples. Bull has the oddest feeling that the mist is annoyed. 

“I can see you, you know,” The mist says. “It’s dreadfully rude to carry on as if I’m not here. You’re being a poor host.”

“Sorry,” Bull says, watching the mist push further down into the crater, becoming more solid. 

“Apology accepted,” The mist says. 

“What are you doing?” He asks. 

“Calibrating.”

“Against what?”

“Sensory inputs that I can use as proxies for reality. I’ve been out of it for quite some time.”

“Huh,” Bull says, and then says no more. 

The mist is about a third of the size it was when it started, and Bull can see the makings of crude limbs, as well as a distinct head. He can hear Krem shuffling around in the kitchen, and he knows Krem is looking for salt there even though they keep massive bags of it in the basement. 

“Please don’t leave me like this,” The mist says, voice plaintive.

Bull settles for quirking an eyebrow and crossing his arms. If the mist really can see, it’ll be able to read that easily enough. 

“Look, there’s nothing you can do about me as I am. Like this, I’ll haunt your tulips until the end of days. If you get me solid and I’m a threat, you can do me in.”

“That seems like a bad plan,” Bull says. 

“For me or you?” The mists asks.

Bull shakes his head. 

“Can’t blame me for trying,” The mist says, petulantly. 

Then it says, “I’m not a demon.”

And, “I know you won’t believe me, but this actually hurts to quite a significant degree, and I’m not real enough yet to pass out from it…”

It’s voice weakens as it speaks, and Bull can hear the tension in it. He’s not so easily swayed. Demons are excellent actors. Although they usually don’t lie outright about being one.

“Andraste’s sake, I’m halfway through the door, just pull me out or push me back in, please.”

He’s never heard one appeal to the Herald. 

“Alright, come on out then,” Bull says, voice slow, doling the words out carefully. 

There’s a nose and eyelids and lips, defined now, though still glittering. He can see broad shoulders and long legs. 

“How much more do you need?” Bull asks. 

The surface of the mist isn’t moving anymore. It looks hard, almost plastic, and he can see fingers where there were rough forms moments before. 

“One,” Bull says. 

The eyelids crack, and Bull can see pale eyes with small, round pupils. 

“Two,”

The creature brings a hand up to its mouth, and the membrane between its lips cracks enough that it can open its mouth. 

“Three.”

The black, shining layer cracks and all Bull can see is light. 

 

—

 

Bull blinks the sunspots from his eyes and pushes himself up from the ground. He couldn’t remember falling over. He knows it can’t have been long, because the sun hasn’t moved at all since he last remembers seeing it. He levers himself up on his good leg, and looks down into the crater. 

There’s a man in it, eyes closed and brow furrowed, troubled but unconscious. He has clear, brown skin and a beauty mark under his eye. He’s dressed like he belongs in a Renaissance faire, but what he’s wearing seems to have real silk and leather, not just pleather and satin. 

Bull hears Krem come out of the house, a day late and a dollar short. 

“Huh,” Krem says. “That is a very attractive man in our garden.”

“Be careful of the pretty ones,” Bull says, fairly confident that no good is going to come of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Might be more of this... Maybe you guys could put prompts in my tumblr inbox?


	7. Bull fantasizing about Dorian, pre-relationship

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A study of the Batesian mimic.

There are things that Bull likes; trends, so to speak. Bright hair and brown eyes, and people who know what they want. Dorian has none of these things. Bull wants him anyway.

—

The first time Bull sees him, he’s fighting, using his staff as a bludgeon. It’s violent and visceral; things Bull does not expect from mages. Bull knows Dorian has a grand ego before he even opens his mouth, but the way he speaks provides a nuance to it. The brightest serpents have the fiercest venom. 

When Bull says that the pretty ones are the worst, he means it. Dorian brushes off the sentiment, and his carriage stays firm and unchanged. He smiles in the way people smile when they know they’re beautiful, and don’t care if anyone else thinks they’re not. 

—

The Blacksmith spits at Dorian’s feet when he comes to Haven, and Dorian quirks a brow at him before wishing him good day. He does not bend. His head stays high. He smiles the way people smile when they know they are beautiful. 

He stops smiling when the avalanche crushes a hundred men and women. Bull sees him hesitate when the dragon appears, fear real and heavy on his face. Bull thinks he’ll run, but he steps forward instead. The bravado stays leached out of him until they reach Skyhold, and then it’s back as if it never left. 

It’s like makeup, like an actor on a stage. And Bull watches him, watches everyone, so he can pin them down and find out exactly what makes them tick. 

— 

“Good boy,” Bull says, his hand in Michael’s red hair. 

Michael is human, and he likes feeling small, and he likes to bend. Bull never pushes too far, because anything pushed far enough will break. That’s not the way he likes to hurt people. He feeds the fire far enough but he never snuffs it. 

It’s the trust that appeals to him. Or maybe it just gets him off with no real rhyme or reason to it. 

“Open your mouth,” He says and Michael does. 

—

“Would you prefer me bound and leashed?” Dorian asks. 

Dorian prods and snaps, but there’s no real bite to it, not enough to sting. He holds himself stiff, and it’s easy to see the anger hiding in him, and the disdain. Bull wonders how old he is, whether he’s met an actual Qunari before or only Vashoth. It’s clear he doesn’t know Bull’s people very well. They’d kill him because he would never submit. 

“I’d buy you dinner first,” Bull says and means it. 

—

Sometimes Dorian looks at him, and Bull thinks he’s on the cusp of something, waiting like a held breath. 

—

When Ink returns from Redcliffe, Dorian is by her side, his head held high, smiling the way people smile when they know they are beautiful. There’s tension in his shoulders though, something about his gait that’s off. He looks like a pane of glass not yet fixed in place. 

Bull goes to follow him, when he walks off towards the library. Ink intercepts him. She halts him with one hand upon his chest.

“Don’t,” She says, and she doesn’t bother to make it clear just what she means or for how long. 

—

Dorian wants him. He tries to hide the little cues, but he still leans towards Bull just slightly when they’re speaking, orients his body like Bull is true north. 

And Bull thinks  _maybe_. 

—

He regrets the misstep when he makes it, the way Dorian stops still as his words fail him, the only sound from his lips an ‘um’. 

“Was that not where we were going?” Bull asks. 

And Dorian shakes his head minutely, “No, it most certainly was not.”

Bull sees it then, how Dorian does not know that Bull wants him, and doesn’t trust that Bull would be careful of him. Dorian is wary for the rest of the day, and Bull backs off. He sticks to safer topics, but Dorian is slow to relax, and pensive. 

Dorian keeps his head high, his back straight and his smile primed, but it’s not as bright as it usually is, and Bull could kick himself for ever thinking Dorian was anything but a convincing milk snake. 

—

Dorian still leans towards him when they speak, his body language tentative but open, and Bull waits for him to come in close. He doesn’t pursue him. 

He’s more new than Bull thought, and more and more Bull finds himself thinking about it. What it would be like, if Bull asked Dorian to kneel, and he wanted to. If Bull ran a hand through his hair and Dorian catted into it. He thinks about Dorian’s mouth and his sweet, pink tongue. 

He thinks about Dorian being a _good boy_. He probably is. 

—

Dorian leans towards him, arms unfolded, feet pointed towards him; but he never says a word that means anything. Bull doesn’t like that. Doesn’t like the thought of being anyone’s dirty secret. He tells enough lies. 

“My door’s always open,” He says, where Ink and Cole will hear. 

Dorian flusters and postures at him with his empty fangs. Bull pushes and Dorian bends, and he’s bad enough to enjoy it when Dorian’s annoyed with him. Pique rubs off the lacquer so Bull can see something that’s a little more real. 

Bull thinks Dorian will blush if he calls him beautiful and means it, and says it at the right time. He’d be lovely, flushed and on his back, breathing hard, mouth open… 

He wants to say,  _I’ll take care of you_.  _You and I don’t have to hide, you surely know I never have. Not in this._

Bull wants him, so he’s crude but he’s careful and pushes only when he knows that Dorian can move with it, when he knows that Dorian will push back. 


	8. Continuation of Mist Dorian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small warning, there's some reference to suicide here, and comic violence. I understand that's not everyone's cup of tea, but I promise I'm not trying to mock anyone, it's more gallows humour from someone who knows.

“So,” Stitches says. “That is a very attractive man in our garden. Where my rosebushes used to be.”

“Yeah,” Bull and Krem say.

“Where are my rosebushes?” Stitches asks, hope still present. 

“Oh, buddy,” Krem replies. 

 

—

 

They get their new person-shaped being into the house after testing him for all the usual maladies. He’s not a demon, nor is he possessed by one (calling Andraste basically ruled both out), and he’s not some other form of unholy creature. He sneezed in his sleep when they brought out the aconite, but Stitches said that was probably a mild pollen allergy. 

He doesn’t wake, even after they lightly ( _lightly_ ) stab him with several knives of various makes and materials. 

“Smelling salts?” Krem asks. 

“Smelling salts.” Bull replies. 

Stitches gets the smelling salts, but he makes Krem do the honours. Bull might have thrown the box in the first place, but Krem primed it, so he’s the one on the shitlist. Bull takes absolutely no outward joy in this. 

“Hey, maybe you should try kissing him, I hear that works on a certain kind of man,” Bull says. 

“Vishante Kaffas,” Krem says, and holds the salts out, as far away from his body as he can manage. He carefully puts the top of the bottle a few centimeters away from the man’s nose. 

His eyes snap open, and Krem screams at a pitch audible only to dogs. 

 

—

 

“My name is Dorian,” Dorian says. “Of house Pavus.”

He’s not stopped glaring at them since he woke up. Every time it seems like he might, he rubs his abused arm and the pique comes right back again. Stitches tried to offer him tea as a peace offering, but that came to a swift end when Dorian saw the tea bag. He found the concept offensive, which they knew because he’d told them so. 

“Pleasure to meet you, Dorian,” Krem replies. 

Krem still looks a little flushed, still embarrassed from his earlier fit, but he’s not given up. He smiles at Dorian. Dorian does not return it. 

“Quite. If you wouldn’t mind introducing yourselves and telling me when I am, I would sincerely appreciate it.”

“Krem.”

“Stitches.”

“Bull,” Bull says. 

“Hilarious,” Dorian replies.

Dorian gives him a very cutting look that travels from his feet up to his horns. Bull flexes his pectorals one at a time, and Dorian reddens while looking horrified. It’s a mixed response, but Bull’s worked with less before. 

“And you’re in Orlais,” Krem says. 

Dorian rolls his eyes skyward and curls his lip. Bull hears him say  _Orlais_  under his breath, like it’s a venereal disease. 

“Thank you for the geographic update, but I was already aware. I asked you  _when_.”

“When?” Stitches asks.

“Yes, what year is it.”

“11:53,” Krem says. 

Dorian is silent for a moment, face set like stone. 

“Would you mind terribly repeating that?” He asks. 

“11:53,” They say, in unison. 

“Ah, thank you,” Dorian says. “11:53. 11:53…”

“Yes,” They say. 

“So this absolutely is not the Dragon Age?”

“No…” Krem says softly. 

“Right. Right,” Dorian says. “Well, thank you gentlemen for your… hospitality. I must excuse myself for a moment.”

“Yeah… Yeah sure, whatever you need,” Bull says, watching as Dorian stands. 

His eyes widen when Dorian pulls Skinner’s folded steel kitchen knife from the the magnetic board, on his way out. Bull walks out after him, Stitches close behind. 

“What are you doing?” Bull asks. 

Dorian undoes his shirt and reveals a very firm and inspiring set of abdominal muscles. He turns the blade over in his hands a few times, switching grips until he finds one he seems to prefer. He holds the knife out, point tipped at an angle towards himself.

“Dorian, what are you doing?” Bull prompts. 

“I’m going to stab myself, and then bleed to death,” Dorian says. “I apologize for the mess.”

He yells very loudly when Bull takes the knife off him. He yells even louder when Bull puts him in a fireman’s carry and drags him back inside. 

 

—

 

“Ok, so, this is the closest thing I could find to a book on dealing with grief,” Krem says, holding out a small, yellow hardback. 

It says “All my friends are dead” and it has a little picture of a gryphon on the front. 

“I don’t think that’s going to work,” Bull says.

They can still hear Dorian shouting behind his cloth gag. They tried letting him have his voice at first, but Krem told them that Dorian was swearing Tevene, and they couldn’t exactly have him casting aspersions on their mothers while the Tilani kids walked home from school. Dorian had flicked his fingers at them, in the beginning, looking increasingly horrified as the action achieved approximately nothing. 

“I’m pretty sure he was a mage… Or thought he was,” Stitches says. “We should probably look into that. That’ll probably be upsetting him most, and we don’t him going off unexpectedly.”

“Was there anything in the puzzle box?” Krem asks. 

Bull shakes his head. He found the thing under Dorian’s body, still intact. It was utterly inert though. 

“Have you tried googling him?” Stitches asks. 

Krem clicks his fingers and says, “No, we have not.”

 

—

 

They stare at the tablet screen for so long that it locks. After that they unlock it and look at it some more. There are illustrations, and some historical text to go with it. 

Perversion is mentioned regularly, as is blood letting and interference with goats. Most of the details seem to come from the journals of a Magister Alexius. 

Bull smells burning cloth at about the same time as he feels someone come up beside him. He glances to the side and sees Dorian, who is breathing smoke. 

“Gereon, you mean-spirited son of a bitch,” Dorian spits, while clearly reading his own wikipedia page. 

Everyone screams again, and Stitches throws the tablet right into Dorian’s face. 


	9. Dorian gets mildly sick/hurt but brushes it off until it becomes serious and Bull has to take care of him

 

“I don’t know how you survived to adulthood,” Bull said, his face drawn in a combination of surprise and pity. 

Dorian whined at him, unable to move a muscle for fear that pain would turn to agony, as it had all morning. 

“Normally you’d have a witty retort for that,” Bull said. 

If there had ever been a novel told through a single glance, it was being told then by Dorian. The story was,  _I lifted something heavy and now I’ve fucked my back_. The sequel was,  _owwwwwwwwwwww._

“You know I’ll need to turn you over to get a look at it.”

A small fireball came into being and hovered in the air between them. Bull gave it an unimpressed look, which morphed into confusion when little thing started bouncing back and forth through the air, first in an arc and then in a circle. 

 _no_ , Dorian said. 

“You can stay like that forever or you can let me put some heat on it and get the muscles to relax.”

 _nO!_  Dorian said. 

He couldn’t quite manage the capital letters. 

“You’re being childish.”

The fireball didn’t spell anything after it. It just zig zagged in a rather aggressive manner. Bull found himself unimpressed. 

“I will bring Ma’am in to help me deal with you, don’t think I won’t.”

The fireball puffed out of existence, and Dorian gave a small, sad sigh. He kept his eyes pointed up at the ceiling, body braced as if he was about to go to the gallows. It was as dramatic as it was pathetic, but if Bull hadn’t liked drama, he wouldn’t have laid his affections on Dorian in the first place. He rolled his eyes and leaned down to brush Dorian’s sweaty hair away from his face. 

“You’ll feel so much better after, I promise,” Bull said. 

Dorian’s expression was plaintive, but a little more trusting than it had been. 

“I’ll be really careful,” Bull added. 

“Ok,” Dorian whispered. 

It was cute, really. 

Sort of. 

 


	10. Only one of us is getting out of here, and it's not me

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Simulacrum.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I said I wasn't going to put this one on AO3 because it was sad, but I'm weak.  
> So, warning.

It’s not the broken leg, or the gut wound, or the blood loss that takes him down. Each on their own, he might’ve had enough leeway to drag himself back to camp, find a healer. Problem is he’s dealing with all of them at once, and even with Dorian shoring him up, he’s lagging. He gives it ten minutes at best before he passes out. Dorian won’t be able to carry him, then. 

And they’re being followed. 

“Dorian,” Bull says. “I need to… I need you to stop a minute.”

“No, you can rest once we’re back at camp,” Dorian replies. 

“Big Guy, I’m not making it back to camp,” Bull says. 

“You are!” Dorian says, right as Bull’s good knee buckles. 

They go down like a sack of bricks. Bull tries to list to the side, fall without putting his weight on Dorian. He’s only half successful. 

“Ow,” Dorian says. 

Bull groans and rolls onto his back, looking behind him to where he can see lights flickering, where he can hear raised voices echoing down the tunnel they’re in. He’s never liked the Deep Roads. Likes them even less now he’s going to die in them. 

“Dorian, you’ve got to go,” Bull says. “I’m not getting up again, and I know you’re some kind of ‘Vint prodigy, but you’re not taking out that many guys. You’re running on empty.”

When he looks at Dorian, the other man is glaring at him. Vehemently. Anger looks good on him, but so do a lot of things. 

“Dorian,” Bull says, voice firm. 

“No,” Dorian says. 

He stands, walking back down the tunnel, towards sound and light. 

“Dorian!” Bull shouts. 

The light gets brighter, the voices louder. Dorian looks small and distant, his body as tense as a bowstring. He raises his staff, and brings it down on the earth. 

The tunnel collapses around him. 

 

—

 

Bull goes somewhere else for a while. It’s shock, he supposes, but it’s fighting against grief and horror; the knowledge that Dorian killed himself just so Bull could die alone. He’s screaming silent because he hasn’t got enough breath to do it out loud. 

Until he does.

Bull opens his eye and there’s Dorian, only it’s not him, it something intangible and purple, casting healing spell after healing spell, patching him up in a way Dorian’s never had the control or stamina for. It’s not the most skilled work, Bull’s still in pain, but he can feel his leg, and he’s no longer bleeding. Bull pushes himself up on his elbows, and the apparition nods. It mimes for Bull to stand, but doesn’t offer any more assistance. 

He realizes that it can’t. Whatever it is, it can cast spells, but it can’t touch anything. 

As Bull pulls himself to his feet, the creature’s body flickers, and it fists its hands in response. It’s dissipating, or dying. Bull doesn’t know what it means. 

“Where’s Dorian?” He asks. 

The spirit shakes its head, and points down the tunnel, away from the cave in.

“Is he  _alive_?” Bull asks.

The spirit glares, gesturing more firmly, body growing faint. 

“I’m not leaving him!” Bull roars. 

The spirit mouths three words at him, slapping a hand over the center of it’s chest. Then it points again, and mouths  _go_. 

Whatever’s happened, Bull won’t be able to dig him out on his own. He needs to get to camp first. He needs to do what Dorian should’ve done in the first place. 

“You can’t do this to me,” Bull says.

And just like that, the spirit’s gone. Disappeared as if it were never there. Bull takes ten seconds to breathe through the pain in his chest. After that he turns and starts walking, limping, running as fast as he can towards camp. 

There’s nothing else he can do.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [THIS HAS FANART NOW](http://maliwanhellfires.tumblr.com/post/128493193114/sometrashland-based-on-this-gem-x-did-you)


	11. Dorian is prideful enough to think he can fight demons with a nasty stomach bug, Bull doesn't notice the sorry state he's in until it's too late.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a reference to vomit this time.

Sera stops laughing after about a half hour, but it’s only because she’s lost her voice. Dorian accepts the reprieve for what it is, because he knows he’s not living this one down any time soon. 

“There we go,” Bull says. “Little bit at a time, see if you can keep it down.”

“Nnnnn,” Dorian says. 

Bull has been holding an admirably straight face, and Dorian appreciates it. He knows Bull’s going to crack sooner or later. It’s just nice that he’s seeing Dorian medicated and hydrated first. He’s not sure he could handle feeling sick, faint and maligned at the same time. 

Bull rubs his hand gently over Dorian’s back, and Dorian whines a bit. His bones hurt. His everything hurts. 

“The look on its face…” Ink says, or rather repeats, for what must be the tenth time. 

She’s not even looking at them, she’s staring off towards the horizon with the expression of someone who has gazed into the abyss. 

“I didn’t even know they could do that!” She says. “It was like, like horror, and confusion. It looked like a wet cat.”

Sera wheezes rhythmically from her spot, lying prone on the ground. 

“It’s mouth was open, too… I think it swallowed,” Ink says. 

Dorian covers his eyes with his hand, and props himself up on an elbow. He feels bad about it. He feels bad about doing something that awful to a demon, of all things. 

“Dorian,” Bull says, and Dorian cracks his eye at him.

“… Yes?” He asks. 

“Get well soon,” Bull says.

Dorian furrows his brow. 

“Because I really want to give you shit about this,” Bull says. 

Dorian opens his mouth to answer, and then vomits potion all over Bull’s shoes. 

“There you go,” Bull says, running a hand through Dorian’s sweaty hair and handing him a canteen full of water. 


	12. Skyhold starts a knitting club

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bull knits for fun. Dorian knits to _win_.

Bull’s scarf is twelve feet long, and he hasn’t stopped knitting. 

“Chief, I can show you how to finish off, it’s not hard,” Krem says. 

“Nah,” Bull says. “I want to make it long enough that the entire company can share it. I want to walk around the keep and confuse people.”

“Pretty sure you can do that without the scarf, Chief.”

Bull smiles and shows off his canines. Krem rolls his eyes and goes back to knitting baby booties. No one he knows is pregnant, but given the amount of carousing they all do, it’s only a matter of time. Also, it makes Sera deeply uncomfortable, and Krem can admit that he enjoys seeing her feathers ruffled. 

She knows what she did.

“You seen Dorian?” Krem asks. 

Bull groans lightly. 

“What?” Krem says. 

“Dalish told him about lace knitting, and he refuses to show anyone until he gets it right,” Bull says. 

“Best of luck to him,” Krem says, finishing off a boot. 

—

Dorian’s shawl is blue and green, and he’s threaded small, iridescent pieces of shell into it, so it looks like he’s wearing dragonscale. Krem’s never seen anything like it, and clearly neither has Bull, if his flaring nostril is anything to go by. Dorian, for his part, looks angry but triumphant. 

“I have to go do something,” Bull says, taking Dorian’s bicep into his hand. “You do too, big guy.”

Dalish throws her needles down once they’re out the door. 

“I hate that guy,” She says.


	13. Fucking spoilery fucking Adoribull story

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> What is says on the tin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'll edit later.  
> I think this might be the first epilogue-based Adoribull story...

Dorian doesn’t have as much downtime in a day as he would like. It’s tiring, and it’s difficult, but he makes it work. He calls to Bull through their crystal whenever he has a commute that’s long enough. This time he’s riding between his home and Mae’s, short enough that he can go on his own, quiet enough that they can speak freely. 

There’s always too much to say. He never runs out of words, with Bull.

“Hello, Amatus,” Dorian says, when Bull completes the connection between them. 

“Hey, Kadan, I was waiting for you,” Bull says.

Dorian smiles, glad Bull can’t see what a sap he’s being, and aching for him all the same. 

“How was your day?” He asks.

“More of the same, Rocky blew up a lyrium supply. Sent a Venatori straight up, it was amazing. Don’t know who was more surprised, us or him.”

Dorian laughs softly, and can hear Bull’s pleased sigh in response. They write letters, but it’s not the same as being able to speak every day. 

“I’m glad you had fun, Amatus,” Dorian says.

“Always do,” Bull replies. “How about you? Ruffle any feathers today?”

Dorian snorts, “Too few, I’m afraid. I must be getting dull in my old age.”

“You? Never.”

“I found a gray hair the other day,” Dorian replies, wistfully. 

Bull makes a pleased grunt that sends a thrill down Dorian’s spine. It makes him think of their last weekend at the Villa. Maker, they hadn’t even left their bedroom. So long they’ve been together, too much of it spent apart, and they’re still mad for each-other. Not that he’d say that, it would be more than a bit insensitive. 

“You’re going to be a silver fox, Kadan,” Bull says. 

“Oh, flatterer,” Dorian replies. 

“Mmm, can’t wait until next week,” Bull says. “Get to do it in person.”

“I can’t wait either,” Dorian says softly. 

Something snaps in the undergrowth to Dorian’s left. Dorian quiets, looking out into the trees that line the road. It’s early evening but no birds are singing. 

“Dorian?” Bull asks. 

“Bull…” Dorian replies. “I love you, most sincerely.”

He could speed his horse, but there’s probably a ditch or a wire set up further down the path. He dismounts instead, patting his mare on her neck before stepping away from her. He draws his staff.

“Dorian, what’s happening?” Bull says, all humour gone from his voice. 

“Ambush,” Dorian says. “I’m sorry Amatus, I don’t want you to listen.”

“Dorian!” Bull shouts.

“I love you so much,” Dorian says, right before severing the connection. 

Dorian is a finer fighter than any one of them, but there’s not just one of them. He puts down five men just to be laid low by the sixth. And then he’s laid into by all the rest. 

 

—

 

Dorian doesn’t die, but he almost wishes he had. His face (and oh, how he likes his face) has an unsightly black eye, and he’s nursing cracked ribs. Those are not enough for a death wish, it’s just that he knows he’s in for worse. The Venatori are not fond of him, and they’ve done awful things to political rivals before. 

Dorian knows himself well enough. If they cut into him, he’ll take it poorly. He won’t say anything, of course, but he will be upset. 

He likes his face. He refuses to feel bad about that. 

Dorian thinks of Bull. He’s probably upset, and Dorian rues that. Bull’s had enough hardship in his life; Dorian has no wish to add to it. But, as with many things Dorian intends, he’s probably not going to achieve that aim. 

 

—

 

They haven’t fed him in two days, which is acceptable. They haven’t given him water in about as long, and that, unfortunately, is going to do him in. It’s not the way he’d like to go. It’s wretchedly loud, for one thing. He’d always wanted to have some quiet when he died. Maybe some light piano music. Harpsichord?

No, fuck the harpsichord. It’s a ridiculous instrument. 

He hears screaming and metal on metal, but it doesn’t register. It’s just noise. Although, some of it is a little familiar, if he thinks about it real hard. 

“Dorian!” Krem shouts. “Dorian, where are you?”

Dorian doesn’t reply. He’s not sure he can, and Krem sounds rather cranky. Dorian prefers to avoid Krem when he’s cranky, although that probably makes him a poor step father. 

Krem probably wouldn’t like that Dorian thinks of himself that way, joking but only halfway. They’re of an age, for one thing. Still, given how long it took for Krem to warm up to him… 

“Here!” Dalish says. 

She has such a lyrical voice. Dorian quite likes listening to her. 

There’s a hand beneath his back, strong arms bearing up until he’s almost right. Dorian blinks up into a worried eye and an eye patch. Bull is early. They’re not due at the Villa yet. 

“I’m here Kadan,” Bull says. “I’ve got you.”

Dorian feels a swell of fondness so keen it aches. 

“Amatus,” Dorian rasps. 

“It’s alright, just close your eyes, everything is going to be fine.”

“Yes, Dear,” Dorian says.

Bull kisses him on the top of the head, and Dorian smiles weakly, in response. 

Bull lifts him and then he carries through the door to his cell, and on, and out. Dorian touches his fingertips to Bull’s hand, where it’s wrapped around him. He closes his eyes. He sleeps. 

All is well. 


	14. If certain people had eluvians

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> WAAAAHAAAHAAAAHAAAAA

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Possibly first eluvian fix it fic too...

Bull can’t exactly carry an eluvian with him, wherever he goes. The Chargers travel light, and they work long hours when they’re on the job. Dorian did once mention the possibility of a portable one, but given that Bull hates using them when they’re solid and upright, it was a conversation they dropped quickly. 

Love is about compromises, and making it work, and ruthlessly exploiting the goodwill of your friends. 

Cullen’s Mabari greets him before Cullen does. It’s a great beast of a thing, and so clever that Bull can’t help but think about it as the kind of mutt a Qunari would be, were such things possible. He lets it lick his hand before it bounds off, barking in a short sequence that Bull thinks might be code. 

When Bull makes it to the sanctuary, the kitchen door is already open, and he can smell stew.

“Hello Bull!” Cullen shouts.

Cullen looks good. He’d softened up just a little since he’d settled in Ferelden, his cheeks rounding out from good living, and his back losing its military stiffness. He smiles more, and he smiles more easily. The dog helps.

“How’d you know it was me?” Bull asks. 

“This time of day? It’s always you,” Cullen says. “So, you want to pretend to eat for twenty minutes, or will I see you in the morning?”

Bull smiles, unabashed. 

“I’ll be back tomorrow, I’ll help with the lunch rush,” Bull says.

“That late?” Cullen asks. 

“What can I say? I’ve missed my man,” Bull replies. 

Cullen waves him off. 

“You know where to go,” Cullen says. 

“Thanks,” Bull replies. 

Cullen’s eluvian is decorated with gold leaf and intricately carved leaves. It is not difficult to see who was involved in its making. Bull doesn’t like walking through it, but he does it nonetheless. 

Bull takes his step. 

Dorian is at his desk, writing furiously. The sun had been setting in Ferelden but it was already dark in their home, the lanterns all lit. The study is full of Dorian’s books and Bull’s letters. There’s a dragon skull, mounted in the corner of the room. 

Dorian looks up, and even though he has dark circles and day’s worth of stubble, he is radiant. 

“Amatus,” Dorian says. “It’s so good to see you.”

“I missed you Kadan,” Bull says. 

Dorian puts his quill down and pushes himself off his chair with cut off grunt and a wince. He rubs at his back as he walks into Bull’s arms, melting when Bull rubs his thumb along the back of Dorian’s neck. 

“Mm, welcome home,” Dorian says, tucking himself in close. Bull can feel the tension leaching out of him. 

Bull kisses the top of Dorian’s head, and holds him. He holds Dorian and he is home.


	15. There was no prompt, I just wanted to write more Little Bull

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sequel to chapter one.

Dorian had never had many friends. It was hard to form meaningful relationships in a country dedicated to hierarchy and murder. He’d had Felix, but it was cheating to count friendship posthumously, and then he’d had Ink. 

The Little Bull obviously counted as well, but being that he was so Little, it was only fair to consider him fractionally. With that in mind, Dorian could say that he had one and a half friends. It was probably the most genuinely loved he’d ever been in his entire life.

It wasn’t sad at all.

—

 

Dorian found the poor thing at the bottom of the stairs leading into the library. Its fur was dirty, and in places slick and wet with blood. It had clearly dragged itself to where it had fallen, leaving a trail of rusted red marks behind it. Dorian had first thought it was dead, but when he ducked down closer to it, he heard a deep rumbling coming from the animal. Cats purred when they were happy, but they also purred when they were distressed. Self-soothing. Dorian knew a thing or two about that, although his tended to come in a bottle. 

“There, there,” Dorian said, putting a hand down gently on the animal’s back. 

The creature flinched, but Dorian hushed it under his breath, and let his magic flow over it, easing its hurts and healing them to the best of his ability. When it uncurled, Dorian saw that it was quite a sizable thing. Probably the biggest cat he’d ever seen. It blinked at him with one green eye, the other milky-white and sightless. It flicked its ear (also singular), and then attempted to toddle off away from him. When it stumbled and fell, Dorian called it a wash and picked the cat up. 

It let him. 

“Big fellow, aren’t you?” Dorian said, grunting a little as he pulled the cat into his arms. 

The cat growled a little, but didn’t fight it when Dorian carried him up the stairs and into his own nook, where he could keep an eye on it. 

 

—

 

Mice were a very real problem in Skyhold, putting holes in things Dorian preferred unholey, and nibbling on some of the books. Dorian didn’t much care for them. The cat didn’t seem to either, but he was much more active in addressing his dislike (Dorian had decided the cat was a ‘he’, and the cat didn’t seem to mind). 

Basically, he was a cold-blooded killing machine, and he greatly enjoyed his battles with the rodent population. He’d even taken to bringing his kills to Dorian’s corner of the library, and dropping them in front of Dorian’s chair. 

“Aren’t you the conquering hero,” Dorian said, when the cat saw fit to give him a slain rat. 

The cat flicked its tail, purring loudly. It was looking a little better kept, but Dorian thought it could use a brush. He was fairly sure the cat would allow it. 

“What do you want me to do with it?” Dorian asked. 

The cat flopped down onto its side, wrapping its tail around itself before settling into a very smug-looking nap. 

“Like a little Iron Bull, aren’t you?” Dorian said. “Adventuring and sleep.”

Dorian thought about it. 

“And probably messing with any ginger tabbies you find,” He added. 

He gave him a pat before he left the library that night. 

“Pleasant evening, Little Bull,” He said as took his leave.

 

—

 

One day, Little Bull followed him home. 

“No,” Dorian said, guarding his door. “I’m busy.”

He slipped through it, closing it behind him before Little Bull. Dorian had thought that was the end it, but then he heard a soft, repeated scraping against the wood. The kind of sound one might hear were a paw going with the grain. 

Dorian resolved to ignore it. He liked Little Bull, but people needed boundaries in their lives. It kept things neat, and gave one space to breathe. It was sensible.

From the other side of the door, Dorian heard the most plaintive mewl that he had ever heard in his entire life. It was soft, and low, and very, very sad. 

Dorian opened the door. 

Little Bull butted his head against Dorian’s calves for ten minutes once he was inside, then he pawed at the door until Dorian let him out again. 

 

—

 

Somebody threw a rock at Little Bull, once. 

“I once read a treatise on how animal cruelty was linked to sociopathy,” Dorian said conversationally, looking at his own nails as his opponent tried not to chatter his own teeth off. 

“Familiars, honestly,” Dorian said. “You southerners will believe anything won’t you? If you feed animals, they follow you around, and I feed this one because he keeps the library free of pests.”

Dorian looked at the man he’d frozen to the courtyard.

“Do you not like the library?” He asked. 

The man shook his head. 

“Good. The library is very important, so you should be respectful of the people who maintain it.”

The man nodded. 

“Excellent, now apologize to him.”

The man gave him the most incredulous look a person could achieve while turning blue.

“That’s mad,” He said. 

“I’m the evil Tevinter Magister of this outfit,” Dorian replied. “Do you really want to be needling me? My feelings get hurt so easily.”

The man looked down at Little Bull, who was licking his own genitalia. 

“I’m sorry,” He said. 

“Good,” Dorian said. 

He released his spell with a flick of his hand. 

“You weren’t under long enough for any real mischief, but were I you, I’d look into treatments for mild frostbite. They’re in the section on medicine, the librarian will direct you, if you need help,” Dorian said. 

After that, Dorian chose to ignore the man. He’d made his point. He wasn’t about to tolerate infighting in the Inquisition, unless Little Bull was the one to start it, because obviously he knew what he was about, and if he had a crack at someone, they deserved it. 

 

—

 

Some of Dorian’s days were good ones, some of them less so. Sometimes he got spat on, instead of at, or he’d overhear something unkind from someone he’d thought was ambivalent to his presence. Dorian knew the weight of the world, but that was easier to deal with than people. People that were on his ‘side’, anyway. He was allowed to kill the ones that weren’t. 

On those days, Little Bull would ask to come in to Dorian’s quarters as he always did, but he wouldn’t leave. He’d curl up next to Dorian on his bed and purr. It was nice.

And then Dorian would wake up the next day with a cat on his face. 

 

—

 

It was nice to be able to hug someone, and Little Bull was really very soft now that Dorian was brushing him.

 

—

 

Little Bull looked very unimpressed when Dorian didn’t come home one night. Dorian found him, lashing his tail, sitting at Dorian’s door in the wee small hours of the morning. Dorian let him inside, pulling the door closed after, and then he sat on his bed and put his face in his hands. 

He felt a soft, warm pressure against his leg, and a low rumble. Dorian sighed, and something in his chest became a little less tight. 

 

—

 

Little Bull hated the absolute _shit_ out of his namesake, and that was the first time in his tenure at Skyhold that someone had ever liked him better. 

 

—

 

The Iron Bull told himself that he should probably be flattered that Dorian’s cat resented him. It meant that Little Bull considered him a worthy threat. Of course, that particularly estimation resulted in Little Bull throwing himself on Dorian whenever Bull went to the library in the hopes of interfering with his… With his wassname. Mage. Little Bull kept cockblocking him with his mage. 

Bull would’ve hated it, but it made Dorian look soft, and happy. Not jovial, not bright and shining with wit for armor. Just, happy. 

And Bull found that he was immeasurably fond of the real thing, now he’d seen it. Dorian was very sweet, when he felt safe enough to let the walls down. He didn’t act that way yet, with Bull. 

But maybe he would, if Bull did right by him. 

 

—

 

Bull gave his counterpart a piece of salmon. 

The Little Bull sniffed it, and then walked away without eating any.


	16. Belly dancing Dorian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I dunno, whatever, I tried.

It had been years since Minrathous, since he went to Vivazzi Plaza and watched the dancers writhe on stage. He’d never seen anything like it before, and hadn’t since. Bodies moving like snakes; sinuous, undulating. Slow and fluid, and then sharp and quick. Pleasing to the eye, and very, very Tevinter. 

Bull appreciated the opportunity to witness it again. The Bill said the dancer was Rivaini, but he held his body all wrong. Much too aggressive, though he’d made his movements softer, less erratic. He still didn’t move with the music so much as fight with it. The flow of his hands spoke of martial forms.  _Mage_. Definitely a mage.

Bull was sure no one else knew, the crowd was far too enthusiastic. 

Fucker was dressed in blue, too. Bull knew he’d look better in black, and gold. The silver was more in keeping with his image, bracelets jangling with each twist of his wrists, but it was too cold for his skintone. Almost dull. 

A patron yelled, “Bravo, Diego!” And earned himself a smile and a rolled shoulder.

Bull was sitting front and center, leaning back to enjoy the spectacle, but Diego would not meet _his_  eye. Maybe fear, maybe racism, but yet another mark against being Rivaini. Not a spy, then. A spy would know Rivain was on good terms with the Qun. 

The drums built up, the music wild, Diego in the midst of it, twisting like a man compelled. Like the beat owned him. He spun, hips working in tight, delicious circles. He snapped his hands out to the crowd, music hitting crescendo only to just  _stop_. His stomach rippled with his even, heavy breaths. 

The applause was deafening, and when Diego bowed there was the smallest pause, as if he’d been about to steeple his hands first. 

—

 

Bull waited behind the theatre, biting into one of the first apples of the season. The fruit was sweet, and a little mealy. It wasn’t bad, but it made him think of the tart offerings he could find back in Par Vollen. Green and crisp, and a little bit mean on the tongue. 

His taste in people wasn’t so different, although most of them came in greys or earth tones. 

“See you tomorrow, my dear,” Bull heard Diego say, from the back entrance. 

It was the first time Bull had heard him speak. It wasn’t a bad voice, could easily pass for Orlesian. Diego’s identity was something of a grab bag. Little bits and pieces of things he could fake, with little unity among them. 

Diego walked out into the alley. He froze two steps in. He wasn’t wearing blue anymore. He’d swapped his outfit for something in white linen, two belts angled around his hips. 

“Hello,” Diego said. “Are you in the habit of eating in dark corners, or are you something of a fan?”

Bull took one last, deep bite out of his apple, and let the core drop from his fingers. He chewed slowly, swallowed. 

“What made you decide to go with Diego?” Bull asked. 

“I’ve no idea what you mean,”  _Diego_  replied. 

“I mean that if your real name is Diego, then mine is Maximus.”

Diego shored his feet, held them shoulder width apart, left foot a little back. A solid stance for casting, except that Diego didn’t have anything to channel with. 

“Calm down,” Bull said, holding his palms up. “No need to get your hackles up.”

“You’re threatening me.”

“I’m having a friendly word, one import to another,” Bull said.

He took a step closer, distracting from the move by shrugging his shoulders, and gesturing with his hands. Diego took a step back anyway. 

“Forgive me if I say this doesn’t seem particularly friendly of you,” Diego said. 

“If I were unfriendly I’d’ve outed you to all your nice coworkers.”

Diego flinched, and Bull saw something there, a spark in his eyes. Genuine fear. 

“What do you want?” Diego asked. 

“I want to know why you’re here, little mage,” Bull said. “Pretty thing like you.”

It wasn’t a compliment. 

“It’s none of your business,” Diego said, flustered. 

“Hmm, lowborn?” Bull watched Diego puff up. “Highborn. Making use of those old dance lessons, right?”

Diego had started to shake a bit. 

“On your own,” He had to be, if he weren’t he would’ve cut and run, gone for his handler. “Although you could have a patron, keeping you dressed nice.”

“If you’re so interested in learning more about me,” Diego said. “You should know that a mage of my caliber can kill a man without a staff.”

Bull quirked his eyebrow. 

“You can, can you?” Bull said, smirking. 

Diego’s hands started to glow. Bull could smell rain. 

“Ah, fuck, you can,” He said. 

He had to break down the service door to avoid the bolt.

 

—

 

Bull always sat front and center, leaning back so he could  _really_  enjoy the show. Diego went incandescent every time he realized Bull was there. Bright and beautiful in his anger. Every time he danced, it got wilder. Like fire. More flickering than serpentine. He got even angrier when Bull watched his hips, the sensuous way they bucked. 

Bull wanted to put his hands on them, see how far his fingers would wrap around Diego’s waist. 

But that was still secondary to wanting to find out what Diego was about. He was still dangerous, Bas Saarebas. Still, like all snakes he could be handled. It was all about knowing where to hold them. 

 

—

 

Diego whimpered a lot, when Bull was having him. Sweet, high-pitched things, made with a learned sort of quiet. Bull wanted to make him loud, but he liked the way Diego bit at the sheets, clutched at his own hair like he was holding on to his sanity. So pretty when he was desperate, and so good, so good, such a good boy…

“Work your hips for me,” Bull hissed. “And don’t come.”

He groaned as Diego obeyed, moving his ass in sinful little circles, his muscled back shining with sweat. Diego whined as he did it, mouth open and panting. Bull was sure if he edged Diego enough, he’d scream, but Bull wasn’t patient enough for it. Not yet. 

But still, stilted, soft under his breath, Bull could hear Diego asking. 

“Inside me, please, inside me.”

“Ah fuck,” Bull said, building, building. “Be rude not to…”

Diego was fast becoming his favourite place. 

 

—

 

When Diego went missing, Bull did not handle it well. 

“Sir, I don’t know what to tell you…” The theatre manager said, day after Diego was gone. 

“Try thinking about what I want to hear,” Bull replied. “And go with that.”

He tilted his head a little forward. It showed off the points of his horns. 

“He found a benefactor,” The manager said. “Last night, some ‘Vint with a pointy cowl and money. He left with him.”

Bull put the manager down, and then he brushed off the man’s shoulders. 

“There, was that so hard?” He asked.

The man did not answer. 

“Now, tell me everything else.”

 

—

 

“So,” Krem said, as he wrapped up Bull’s ruined eye. “You’re  _kinda_  looking for your boyfriend, but he’s also  _kinda_  a mark.”

“Caution’s a virtue,” Bull said.

“That’s not how the saying goes,” Krem replied. “And he’s some ‘Vint asshole, right?”

“Oh yeah.”

“Was his ass made out of gold, or what?”

“He was a professional bellydancer.”

Krem was silent for a moment. Bull couldn’t see him (oh, he was really going to miss that eye…), but he could hear him thinking. 

“Huh,” Krem said. “That good?”

There was an almost wistful note to the question. 

“ _Oh yeah,”_ Bull replied. 

 

—

 

It spoke to how different Diego looked that Bull almost snapped his neck when he snuck up on him in the Alexius estate library. The only thing that saved him was an unexpected turn away from the stacks. Bull was relieved, but even he could admit that holding his hands at throat height was incriminating. 

“Heeeey Diego,” Bull said. “Long time no see.”

He tried to casually lower his arms. Diego’s alarmed expression indicated that he had failed. 

“I really thought we were past this,” Diego said, sounding vaguely disappointed. 

“Yeah, well.”

“I’m sure you know this is Tevinter,” Diego said. “I am  _allowed_  to be here.”

“You left kind of abruptly, wanted to check in.”

“More like you wanted to check me  _out_.”

“I always want to check you out,” Bull said, leering. 

Diego looked unimpressed. 

“So, seeing as you don’t seem to be abducted… Couldn’t be bothered to leave a note?” Bull asked.

Honestly, it would have saved a lot of time, and he was fairly sure his superiors were very confused by what he was doing. Krem certainly was. He’d refused to step foot past the border, and was instead living in a border tavern on Bull’s coin, and engaging in affairs with all the waitresses.

Diego looked uncomfortable.

“I wasn’t sure there was anything to say,” Diego replied. 

 “’Bull, I’m leaving forever, don’t fret about it,’ would’ve been nice,” Bull said. 

The manipulative little bastard was curling in on himself a bit, brow drawing in like an ashamed puppy. Diego closed a hand over his own elbow, playing with his sleeve, like he couldn’t think of anything to say. 

“I didn’t think you’d worry,” Diego said. “I’m very sorry.”

And then he looked up, eyes bright and lovely through his lashes. 

 

—

 

“My… my name’s actually Dorian,” He said, while Bull had him up against the bookshelves. 

“I fucking knew it,” Bull said. 


	17. What was Dorian doing to end up in the box?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> More Mist Dorian.

Once upon a time there was a beautiful, clever Prince, who was banished from his Kingdom for refusing to marry. With no home, he was forced to roam Thedas, defending himself from all manner of malcontent. He wandered for many months, so long that he was forced to sell his crown just so he could eat.

The Prince was most mournful over the loss of his birthright, and in his sorry state did not take care enough to disguise himself. He was set upon by bandits of a most devious sort, and very well might have died, were it not for the intervention of the King of a neighbouring Kingdom…

 

\---

 

“This story is really sarcastic,” Dalish said.

“I’m sorry, I can’t hear you over the sound of how simple I am,” Dorian said, posing on the sofa.

“I wasn’t trying to insult you.”

“I’m not sure how else I’m supposed to take ‘ _ass-backwards_ ’, my dear woman, although I am all ears for your seer-like future wisdom.”

“I apologize for not seeing the wonders of a culture that had slavery,” Dalish replied, starting to turn red. “Predominantly of elves!”

“Mmm, and modern Orlais is so much better, tell me, what’s the incarceration rate like again? And is hard labour still a thing, or do they call it something else when they make prisoners work for free?”

“Never should have showed him how to use the internet,” Krem said.

 

\---

 

“Ok,” Bull said, putting a bottle of wine down in the exact middle of their dining table.

Dorian reached out and turned it with a delicate hand, carefully reading the label. He didn’t reject it immediately like he had Bull’s first offering, which had been from Serrault and had a screw top. Dorian had looked more horrified by that than he had been by his magic being on the fritz.

“Merlot?” Dorian said. “From Claose.”

“Ten years old,” Bull replied.

“Glasses,” Dorian said.

Bull put a red wine glass on the table in front of him. They’d had to go out and bloody buy a set, the closest they’d had before had been a beer glass. That hadn’t gone down overly well either.

Dorian held his hand out, and Bull gave him a bottle opener. Dorian pulled the cork and took a moment to look at it. Bull could hear Krem and Dalish holding their breaths.

“Alright,” Dorian said, pouring himself a glass and then doing some strange ritual involving rotating his wrist and smelling the wine. He took a sip.

“Alright?” Bull said.

Dorian closed his eyes and sighed. He tilted his head back just a little, and Bull couldn’t help but appreciate the line of his neck, much as he wanted to strangle it.

“Alright.” Dorian replied.

 

\---

 

A lot of politically interesting things were happening in the Dragon Age, but having lost his status in Tevinter, there wasn’t much Dorian could do to get involved in it. Not without redeeming himself in some way. When Gereon Alexius took him on as an apprentice, he’d had his wits and not much else.

“Of course, I am very, very witty,” Dorian said. Krem rolled his eyes.

Bull rolled his hand parallel to the ground, _keep going_.

“We were working on time magic, which was nothing but theory when we got started. A year in and it was still theory, but a lot more of it, and I was starting to see some obvious practical applications. Stasis being one of them.”

Dorian took another sip of his wine, looking bitter.

“Alexius had a family, including a son around my age. Felix used to look out for me quite a bit, made sure I ate when I got too involved in our work. Madame Alexius was an arcanist, but a much more practical sort. She helped me learn how to work with solid materials. They were lovely people.”

“Now, you probably have an idea about darkspawn, I’ve seen your _shows_. Seems modern thought is that hysteria exaggerated our perspective on them, pushed up numbers and sizes for dramatic effect. You can’t imagine it, but they were legion, and tireless, and… hungry. And every city they took down gave them more troops.”

“How?” Krem asked.

Dorian looked at each of them, gaze slow and careful. He stopped on Rocky.

“Do you know what a broodmother is?” Dorian asked.

“That was…” Rocky shook his head. “They’re a myth.”

“Hm, I have to wonder if this is Chantry bullshit or something else, because somewhere there’s got to be the bones of them,” Dorian said. “I had a look around, there’s a fair market for knives made then. They were highly decorative, a solid, traditional present for a girl turning ten. Any younger than that, and they tended to be eaten, but any older than they’d likely be dragged off after a raid, and they’d be corrupted. It was much kinder to put a sharp knife to your carotid and pull.”

Dorian demonstrated with his hand.

“What does this have to do with you?” Dalish asked.

“Corrupt a person who can have children, and you get a broodmother, an immovable, angry, hungry creature that is forced to give birth until the advent of their death. Dozens of children at a time, all mobile, that immediately set upon each-other. There were some records of it, rare instances where one would be found above ground, in one of their camps. The younger ones would cry when their children died. Just, weep. Like there was something left in them that was a person.”

Dorian licked his lips, “I’m telling you this because I want you to _know_ what it means to see darkspawn coming, and how brave and sensible it was that Madame Alexius took her own life over becoming one of those _things_. Everyone else with her ran until they were struck down. The only one who survived was Felix.”

“He had the Blight, didn’t he?” Bull asked.

“Yes,” Dorian nodded. “He had the Blight and I had a nascent method for putting living things in a time capsule. I hadn’t tested its longevity beyond a week, and that was with rats. Gereon wanted to use it on his own son, buy himself time to figure things out, find a cure, undo the past… He wanted to risk killing his son over something less than ‘maybe’, instead of making the most of what we had left.”

Dorian’s voice was rising, old anger blooming out, and sharpening him. Dalish slid her hand down to her staff.

“I told him ‘no’,” Dorian said. “And he drugged my food, took my prototype, and unmade me. And apparently after that he did all he could to hide my disappearance and slander my name.”

“What happened to Felix?” Krem asked.

Dorian looked abruptly, and deeply, uncomfortable. He took the bottle of wine from the table again and poured himself an over-full glass. He drank half of it in one pull.

“I don’t know,” Dorian said. “But…”

“What?” Bull said, voice flat.

“You don’t know anything about the Blight, and I don’t know enough, just that sometime between my confinement and today, it was wiped out. No more darkspawn, and no idea why. No defence against the rise of another outbreak, if one were to occur.”

“Oh, shit,” Krem said.

“I can’t find any record of Felix anywhere I look, with what I have access to,” Dorian said. “I don’t know what happened to him. I was careful, I destroyed most of my notes when Gereon became too interested in them.”

“You had a second prototype,” Bull said.

“Improved version, really,” Dorian said. “But, yes.”

“Why didn’t you tell us this sooner?” Bull asked, eyes narrowed. “Days ago?”

“I thought it was obvious.”

“It’s not,” Bull said.

“It’s been days, and I, _I_ , have next to nothing to show for it, and no clue where to go,” Dorian said. “That is my most honest estimation. I have no idea where Felix is, if he was sealed as I was, and just exactly what happens when you put a major contagion in a magic box for two hundred years, if that’s what Gereon did. And beyond that, I have no value if I’m of no value to _you_ , so forgive me for drawing things out long enough to acclimate myself, however weakly…”

Dorian drank the rest of his glass of wine, unhappily glancing at all the people around him.

“I’m terrified,” Dorian said. “In case you haven’t noticed.”

Bull rubbed his hand over his face, and huffed his annoyance down at the table. Everyone else was silent, oriented just slightly towards him, waiting to see what he would do.

“I better call Ma’am,” Bull said.

Krem handed Bull his phone.

 

 


	18. Bull is a famous dragon hunter. Dorian is the guy who just figured out how to befriend dragons.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Shoutout to [Sarahwhat](http://sarahwhat.tumblr.com) who invented Eustace. But this time he's a dragon.

The Iron Bull wasn’t a discriminatory sort. If it caused trouble, he’d fight it. If it caused enough trouble, his boys, his Chargers, would fight along too. He’d built a career out of hunting down just about anything that went bump, regardless of what time of day it was. 

But, he did have a preference. A specialty, if one would. 

The Iron Bull was very, very good at killing dragons. And people loved him for it. Most of them, anyway. 

 

* * *

 

\---

 

The Chargers had been at Skyhold for a week, one  _whole week_  of hiking through the mountains with little to show for it. The townspeople didn’t seem to mind, but Bull was not pleased. It was a matter of professional pride. Bull found dragons. Bull stopped dragons. Somewhere towards the end of that cycle he’d have sexual relations with someone nice, sturdy, and preferably red-headed. 

“Where the hell are they, Krem?” Bull asked. 

“No idea, Chief,” Krem replied. “Scouts haven’t even found droppings for two days. There’s some scale, but it’s all old. Whatever was bothering these people has moved on.”

“Or it’s hiding out until we leave,” Bull said. 

He’d had dragons do that before. Sometimes they could smell it on him, the scent of old dragon blood. Humans couldn’t pick it up, nor could dwarves, but there was something about it that set elves on edge. To Bull it just smelt good, but dragons knew a threat when they saw one. Most weren’t willing to wait more than a few days before returning to their stomping grounds, though. They always defended territory, in the end. 

“If they’re waiting on us, we should stop doing patrols. We’re not getting anything out of them, and it might be better to spend the time shoring up the keep’s defences. Be more productive,” Krem said.

“Mmm,” Bull said, eyes tracking a flicker of movement down on the road.

There was a man coming in from the west, carrying a staff and a basket over his back, a sickle on his hip. It was only mid-afternoon, but he looked tired. He was walking like each step was an effort.

“Who’s that?” Bull asked.

“Him?” Krem said, looking down. “That’s Skyhold’s druid. He leaves before dawn every day to collect plants and commune with nature, or whatever. Keeps to himself, mostly. You know druids.”

“Hmm,” Bull said.

Bull had made a point of meeting everyone in the keep, however casually. He’d been by the keep’s tavern, and the kitchens, spent time in the training yard and the meeting hall. In all that time he hadn’t laid eyes on the druid once. It could have been coincidence, but Bull didn’t put much stock in such things.

The man was avoiding him, and he wanted to know why.

 

\---

 

Most druids wore white as a kind of professional standard. They tended towards robes and slightly gaudy jewellery that apparently possessed ceremonial purposes. Bull wouldn’t have known. He worshipped Koslun, and got his spiritual advice from priests that knew how to kill a man with any sufficiently blunt object. Bull had initially been impressed by the sickle druids carried, but then Krem had told him it was only used for cutting plants.

Disappointing. Very disappointing.

Thing was, Skyhold’s druid didn’t play to type in anything other than his use of a sharp farming implement. He wore sturdy leather and linen, and his cloak was hooded and black. Either he didn’t know what he was doing, or he was confident enough in it that he didn’t care what he looked like.

And then there was the staff. If a staff was being used for walking, it generally didn’t have a blade on the end. Bull had only seen it from a distance, the day prior, but once it was closer up, he could see it was decently made. It balanced well in the druid’s hand.

Bull knew this because he’d gotten up early to wait for him, and the druid had just walked past him, not noticing he was there.

“Good morning,” Bull said, one meter behind him, to his left.

The man jumped about a foot and Bull found it very gratifying.

“Vishante kaffas!” The druid said. “What is wrong with you?”

The man reeled on him, eyes widening when he saw just who had surprised him. Bull smiled, showing off canines that were bigger than a human’s ever got. Bull breathed in deeply through his nose, and the druid shrunk back from him. He could smell holly and rosemary, probably from the satchel the other man was carrying. Beneath that there was sandalwood, fresh bread, and something muskier that he couldn’t quit put a pin on.

“Sorry,” Bull said, not sounding sorry at all. “Morning watch gets boring, thought I might introduce myself.”

He held his hand out, a gesture most humans were loath to refuse. They more feared being impolite than they did coming within the reach of someone much larger than themselves. The druid paused for a moment, before that same drive overcame him, and he stepped in closer to take Bull’s hand in his own.

“The Iron Bull, temporary security at yon keep,” He said.

“Dorian of…” Dorian trailed off, seemingly rewriting some old script that no longer fitted him. “Well, Dorian, resident druid of Skyhold.”

He was a beauty, up close, his hood unable to hide him and his clear, brown skin, his pale irises. He had nothing around his neck, no beads of seasoned wood or bone, but he did have a gold ring through his nose, and kohl around his eyes. Humans would have called him ‘Classic’, possessing an aquiline nose and a firm jaw. He styled his hair Tevinter style, which might have gone a long way towards explaining why he avoided Bull. The Qunari and Tevinter were hardly friends, but then, neither of them were anywhere close to home.

Bull held Dorian’s hand about a twenty seconds longer than what would have been comfortable. He felt Dorian’s hand tense, and saw the wariness draw deeper in his eyes. Bull wanted Dorian to know that he would be keeping an eye on him, but he didn’t mind keeping it ambiguous as to the capacity.

“Pleasure to meet you,” Bull said.

“Quite,” Dorian said, very quietly.

Bull felt his palm heat up a little, and with one more squeeze he released Dorian’s hand.

“See you around,” Bull said. “Maybe catch a drink later.”

“Maybe,” Dorian said, turning on his heel, his cloak twisting dramatically behind him.

He had nice calves, too. Bull’d give him that.

 

\---

 

A month.

They’d been at Skyhold for a month, and nothing. Zip. Nada. Zilch.

“I don’t blame you,” Chief Adaar said, when she invited him to lunch with her. “You might even be keeping them away, who knows? But I’m loath to send you off after such a short time. I don’t want to end your contract while it’s still the growing season. It could end very poorly for us if they came back now. Please, I know you’re getting a little cooped up, but give us until first snow.”

Truthfully, Bull was the only one who was actually going stir crazy. The rest of his contingent was enjoying what amounted to a paid holiday. They trained, they sat watch from time to time, and they got hot meals every day and a warm bed at night. Some of them were also getting laid. The Chargers had never been more contented, all with the exception of Bull.

“You paid me to do a job, Boss,” Bull said. “I feel remiss not following it to the end.”

“You can’t follow it to the end if a dragon never shows up,” Chief Adaar said.

“That’s the strange thing,” Bull said. “Sometimes they’ll step back if they want to size up a threat, but they never hold out for more than a few days. Something is keeping your dragon problem at bay, and I don’t know what.”

Chief Adaar tapped her fingers against the wooden table between them, pensive.

“You could try talking to Dorian,” She said. “He’s the closest thing we have to a historian, that’s part of the reason he came here. He knows more about dragons than anyone I know, aside from you I suppose.”

“Huh,” Bull said.

 

\---

 

“Oh, our esteemed leader exaggerates,” Dorian said. “All I know are bits and pieces from books, and I imagine your practical experience would be far more accurate.”

Dorian wasn’t an easy man to pin down. He rose early, returned around twilight, and disappeared into his rooms after stalking by the kitchen. Very rarely he would visit the library first, and take a tome or two from the shelves.

It had taken three days of loitering, but Bull had finally caught him.

“If there’s one thing I know, it’s that there’s always more to learn,” Bull said.

“I wouldn’t want to bore you.”

“I’m easily entertained.”

Dorian’s expression could have best been described as ‘vexed’. The man was probably terrible at poker, because Bull knew he was hiding something more than dislike. Talking was getting them nowhere.

“I’ll see what I can find in my books,” Dorian said. “I’ll have something put together for you by the end of the week.”

“Sounds great,” Bull said, smiling broadly and slapping him on the back.

Dorian squawked.

Of course, Bull knew they were both full of shit, and he had no intention of waiting that long to find out what made Dorian tick.

 

\---

 

Bull woke at 3am, put on his boots and his sturdiest cloak, and caught Krem coming home with the stride of pride, while Bull was on his way out.

“What are you doing, Chief?” Krem asked.

“Don’t worry about it,” Bull said, clapping him on the shoulder. “See you in the evening, and I’m proud of you, you’re living your best life.”

Krem gave him a look that was tired on multiple levels.

“You doing something stupid?” Krem asked.

“Nope.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“I’m doing some recon.”

“Boys don’t like it when you stalk them, Chief.”

“It’s not stalking, it’s recon. Forest needs a look over.”

“You remember what poison oak looks like?” Krem asked. “Because we don’t need a repeat of last time.”

Bull growled.

“Here’s hoping you stick him with your staff and not the other way around; I’m guessing he’d be more literal about it.”

“Thank you, Krem,” Bull said.

“I’m going to bed,” Krem said. “You have fun poking bears or whatever.”

“Don’t die in your sleep,” Bull replied.

Krem made a rude gesture as he walked away.

 

\---

 

Following Dorian was more boring than Bull had thought it would be. For one thing, his situational awareness was poor at best. Bull had been tracking him for an hour, and Dorian hadn’t noticed the time he’d stepped on a twig,  _at all_. Bull had been out of the field too long, he was getting sloppy.

Not that there was much to see. Dorian was gathering grass, for Koslun’s sake. And from the tiered lengths of the copse, Dorian had been doing so on the regular.

Well, not quite… probably for about…

“Huh,” Bull said, under his breath.

He’d been harvesting for a little over a month. It was simple to tell, because he was exact with his scythe. The grass had grown back like a set of stairs, around thirty of them, all in a row. He’d started at one end of the copse and had worked his way left. The rest of it clearly hadn’t been harvested at all.

Dorian tied the grass together with a spare blade, long enough to wrap around the bundle three times, and then he put it in his satchel. He cracked his back afterwards and started walking, heading further into the forest, but avoiding walking through the grass, or through any more dense vegetation. Trying not to leave a trail.

It didn’t matter, not with a tracker as experienced as Bull was. He held back, letting Dorian move out of sight, then he took a moment to check his sword was sliding smoothly from its sheath. He suspected he would need it.

It was a pity, though. He’d been hoping he was wrong, about Dorian, and whatever he was doing.

 

\---

 

Dorian led him on a long chase, halfway around the mountain, further than his men had been able to go. Dorian obviously knew the land well. Bull had stopped his own men from climbing too far up to the peak, wary of losing them to a slope that couldn’t hold them. Turned out all they needed to do was spiral around, where the path was thin but sturdy.

Bull knew he’d reached the end of Dorian’s journey when he saw flat ground holding his cloak and satchel, but not the man himself. He could still hear birdsong, which was a good sign, but it distracted from whatever might be underneath. The worst of it was a very loud, very enthusiastic chirping.

He drew himself in closer to the side of the mountain. Whatever he was hearing, it wasn’t a bird. It was much, much too loud to be a bird.

“Eustace, really,” Bull heard Dorian say, with far more warmth than he’d ever used on him. “You’re being ridiculous, calm yourself.”

Bull followed the sound, sticking close to the ground, trying to keep to cover as much as he could. He crept over the edge of a small hill, and then he saw it, standing in a clearing.

Yellow, horned, and about the size of a horse. Its wings hadn’t grown in yet, still small and close by its side. The looser skin around its throat and chest spoke to a very rare breed, a dragon without element.

It was nuzzling at Dorian, like a dog, or a cat. And Dorian was laughing.

He’d… He’d been keeping the thing. He’d been the one to take it away when the Chargers arrived, and the moment they left he’d bring it back.

Bull drew his sword, and that was the moment Dorian looked up and directly at him.

“Oh shit,” He said.

The dragon wheeled on him, pupils narrowing to slits. Its scream sounded like metal on glass, loud enough that nearby birds erupted from the trees. Loud enough that the forest was shocked silent.

 

\---

 

“Put the sword down,” Dorian said, stepping forward, in front of the dragon, panic bright in his eyes.

“No,” Bull replied.

“If you’ve any sense of self preservation, put the sword down,” Dorian said, vehement. “Please, there’s no time, she’s hard to reason with when she’s  _scared_.”

Bull cocked his brow and looked between Dorian and the chattering, pacing monster that seemed happy to hide behind him.

“I’ve killed dragons bigger than that one while I was drunk,” Bull then took a moment to look under the dragon’s belly. “And I’m not one to coercively gender things, but I hope you know that dragon won’t be laying eggs anytime soon.”

“I’m not talking about Eustace,” Dorian said.

“Eustace?” Bull asked.

 _Eustace_  who was now looking up the mountain, still chirping, and bouncing on his hind legs.

“Too late,” Dorian said, and if it sounded like anything, it sounded like regret.

Bull heard the crack of falling trees, felt the earth shake from the force of whatever was running on it. It moved like a snake, slipping through the trees, body shining and black, and at least as tall as three men. It broke through the treeline and Bull saw it for what it was.

One eyed, one horned, and fully grown. A real dragon, a fighter. It stared him down the way they all did, eye sharp with hate and intelligence. He’d never fought one solo before. Bull grinned. If he was to die, what a way to go? What a way to go.

Dorian slapped a hand on his sword arm before he could raise it. He put himself between the dragon and Bull.

“What are you doing, you asshole, get out of the way!” Bull said.

“It’s alright, Bull, he won’t hurt you, I won’t let him,” Dorian said.

“Ahhh,” Bull replied. “What are you on about?”

“I’m not talking to  _you_ ,” Dorian said.

He sounded a bit embarrassed about it.

“Who else would you talk to?” Bull asked, eyes flickering between Dorian and the dragon, its mouth open and glowing with not-yet-unleased fire.

“To her,” Dorian said. “It’s fine, Bull, look at Eustace.”

The dragon growled, stepping back, circling closer to the smaller dragon, so he was in its peripheral vision. Eustace tucked itself under its wing, finally brave enough to hiss now that he had protection.

“Why do you keep telling me to do things?” Bull asked.

If he was not mistaken, Dorian turned red.

“That’s her name,” Dorian said. “Her name is Bull.”

Bull-the-dragon whined lowly, moving her head around, like she was trying to find a way around Dorian so she could take a chunk out of The-Iron-Bull.

“You named a dragon after me?” Bull said.

“I am aware of the irony,” Dorian said, sounding very ashamed.

“Alright,” Bull said. “You’ve earned yourself a temporary reprieve.”

“What?” Dorian asked, his grip on Bull’s hand slipping as Bull put his sword back in its sheath.

Bull-the-dragon huffed and settled back on her haunches, immediately calmed. Eustace army crawled closer until his courage failed him, and then he just lay on the ground, ten feet from them, mournfully chirping.

“If you’d given my name to the yellow one, I’d’ve had to kill you, but her?” Bull pointed. “That’s fucking flattering.”

Bull-the-dragon hissed.

 

\---

 

“I’m surprised you’re being so reasonable about this,” Dorian said later, sitting opposite Bull, with Eustace’s head on his knee.

Dorian was scratching his chin, and it sounded like he was purring.

“Never seen a dragon listen to anyone before,” Bull said. “I kill things that hurt people, seems like maybe yours don’t.”

Although he seriously had his doubts about BTD, she was still sitting behind Dorian and looking at Bull with concentrated hate. When he looked down, he saw Eustace flicking his eyes towards him every now and then as well.

“I’m not entirely sure on the ‘maybe’ though,” Bull admitted. “They don’t seem sold on me.”

“They can smell the blood,” Dorian said. “She knows you’re a dragon killer. Eustace is little, I’m not sure he knows what it means.”

“Hmm,” Bull said.

“They’re not going to harm anyone, all they ever did was poach sheep,” Dorian said. “It’s hard living up here, more humans means less to hunt. She got desperate.”

It was a very apple-pie sort of view of the situation. Poachers had become maneaters before, Bull had seen it. There was still the chance Dorian’s pets would, too.

“She was here before Skyhold, to her  _we_  are the invaders, and she is defending.”

“That’s not a great situation for Skyhold to be in, is it?” Bull asked.

“It doesn’t have to be,” Dorian said. “We don’t have to hunt them. People used to ride gryphons, and she’s no less intelligent, and no less a predator. We just need to be worthy of trust. She could be a great ally.”

“How’d you do all this?” Bull asked, waving his hand between Dorian, Euastace and Other-Bull.

“Well…” Dorian said.

 

\---

 

“I can’t believe you did that to a sheep,” Bull said.

“I’m a druid,” Dorian replied. “You don’t want to know what the traditionalists do with horses. At least it was dead before she ate it.”

“What do you do with horses?” Bull asked, reticently.

“ _I_  don’t do anything to horses,” Dorian said. “There’s a reason I don’t practice in Tevinter anymore.”

 

\---

 

When night fell, they lit a fire, and Other-Bull pretending to be in incredibly pain when Eustace bit her. It set off an episode of horrified chirping, and Other-Bull staring disappointedly into the fire.

“Is he hers?” Bull asked.

“No,” Dorian said, shaking his head. “I found him in the Hissing Wastes, he was very thin, malnourished. I… might have accidentally hit him with a lightning bolt and felt bad.”

Bull snickered.

“He was crying!” Dorian said.

“I believe you,” Bull said.

“It was awful,” Dorian replied. “He was all alone, he didn’t have anybody…”

Dorian trailed off, and Bull couldn’t help but think he was a little embarrassed of his fellow feeling. It wasn’t as if Dorian seemed to have much of anybody around.

“I hid him in the mountains, took care of him, learned how to handle him, and when, when she found him…”

“I already know her name, no point hiding it now.”

“ _When she found him_ , she brought him something to eat, and hung around until I came back. I think she was expecting another dragon, someone she could politely tell off. She kept looking between us like we were a puzzle that only half made sense.”

Bull didn’t blame her. Eustace’s tongue was sticking out between his incisors.Other-Bull leaned in close, gently butting her head against Dorian’s side. Dorian reached up to pet her cheek, and she trilled in response.

“I’ll leave if that’s your price for silence,” Dorian said. “But I won’t let anyone hurt them.”

Bull sighed. He was getting soft in his old age, and, if he was being honest, he was less keen on killing a dragon than he was on getting into bed with a man who’d tamed one.

“Don’t worry about it, I’ll spin it with the keep, going to make it a much more recent, mystical thing though.”

“I, uh, I would be appreciative,” Dorian said.

“We should probably get some sleep, we’ll need to get going early if we want to avoid a search party, tomorrow,” Bull said.

“I agree,” Dorian replied.

 

\---

 

Bull waited until Dorian’s breaths evened out and Eustace started snoring. He opened his eye and looked at Other-Bull, who hadn’t taken her eye off him. She narrowed it when Bull met her stare.

“You understand common, don’t you?” Bull asked.

She stilled for a moment, before nodding slightly.

He’d always suspected…

“Mmm, not too fond of me, are you?”

She shook her head much more firmly than she had before.

“Thing is, I know some things he doesn’t,” Bull said. “About how someone like you might’ve lost a horn and an eye… Stories so old no one would think to attach them to you.”

She curled her lip up, showing her teeth.

“But if you’re good, and we all behave, he never has to know about any of it, ok?” Bull said.

Other-Bull pulled back slightly, like she was surprised. She nodded her head again, movement still small, but loose.

“That’s good, that’s good…” Bull said. “Oh, and one more thing.”

She cocked her head slightly, to show she was listening.

“When we get back, I am going to  _hit that_ ,” Bull said. “I am going to get all over him, and there is nothing you can do about it. It’s going to be amazing.”

Her pupils were so thin he could barely see them. She was frozen with rage.

“I might even marry him, and then you’ll be stuck with me  _forever_.”

Her mouth was hanging open a bit, so he rolled over and ignored her. He slept like a baby, too.

 

\---

 

His sword was a twisted, dented mess the next day, and even though Eustace was the one playing with it, Dorian clearly knew who the real culprit was.

“Honestly,” Dorian said, looking at her.

“I can buy another sword,” Bull said, smiling.

Such things were lost in the heat of battle. He was still counting it as a win.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Like he was _ever_ going to stop fighting dragons for real. He just found a new outlet.
> 
> [Also look at what Sarahwhat drew, it's so cute!](http://maliwanhellfires.tumblr.com/post/129918178979/sarahwhat-a-doodle-for-maliwanhellfires)


	19. Tattoo shop AU where Dorian shows up piss ass drunk and is like ‘Iron Bull? I want that on my ass’

Iron Bull has context-specific feelings about drunks. 

When he’s off the clock, he tends to like them. The belligerent ones less so, the violent ones not at all. They’re a hazard he can navigate. 

Bull fucking hates drunks when he’s working, though. Hates them like fire. What patience he had for them died a dozen years past, and he doesn’t think it’s likely to resurrect. Thankfully, he is large, muscled, horned and very intimidating, so most of them take one look at him and try to take their business elsewhere. Most, with a common exception. 

“Oh wow, you’re so big,” A teeny tiny elf says. “What did they feed you growing up?”

Young women. Young women have no fear of him. He thinks it’s his own doing, because he doesn’t like scaring them (night’s scary enough just  _being_  a woman), and that translates to him putting less commitment into his stare when they show up. It would be more manageable if they didn’t travel in packs. 

“Sera,” Her companion says. “Sera I don’t believe this is a good idea.”

She’s five foot ten, blonde, and dressed in clothing that was probably quite nice before she took her scissors to it. He’s roughly her height, dark-haired and coiffed to within an inch of his life. There’s a whole night and day thing going on, and Bull has a suspicion it’s intentional. 

“No, this is the best idea I have ever had,” Sera replies. 

They’re both over-enunciating. 

“You,” Sera says, clicking her fingers at Bull in a manner that makes him want to bite them off. “I want words, right over my breasts, big letters, ‘Teetness’. That’s what I want.”

“It pays to advertise,” Bull says. 

He nudges the appointment book off the front counter, and casually puts the pencil holder under the desk. From experience he knows it’s best to put loose objects out of the way before he says ‘no’. 

“No, no, not ‘Titness’, ‘Teetness’, my girlfriend,” Sera says. 

“I don’t think she likes that name, Sera,” Her companion replies. 

“Shut up, Dorian.”

Dorian’s moustache is shaped like handlebars, because of course it is. 

“Do you have a boyfriend?” Sera asks, squinting at him. 

“No,” Bull replies. 

“Would you like one?” She says.

Dorian slaps her on the shoulder, more lightly than she likely deserves. In response she tweaks his nipple and he goes down like a tonne of bricks. 

“Andraste’s sake, Sera, they’re still healing!” Dorian cries, bereft. 

 _Huh_ , Bull thinks,  _not bad_. It’s actually a point in their favour, because it means they’ve actually been into a parlor before, or at least he has, so they probably expect a rejection. He’s had people stumble in just to make appointments they had no intention of keeping. 

“How’s about I fit you in tomorrow,” Bull says. “Midday.”

“Fancy script, right? You can do fancy script, right?”

“Calligraphy,” Dorian says from the floor. 

“I can do that, yes,” Bull replies. 

“Tits,” Sera says, and Bull thinks she means ‘good’. 

“See you tomorrow,” Bull says. 

“Wait, wait. Wait wait wait, what’s your name? For tomorrow?” Sera asks. 

He really should just say ‘Sten’ or something else equally dull, but he can’t be bothered. 

“I’m The Iron Bull,” He replies. 

Dorian finally climbs his way up off the floor and onto his knees, his upper body leaning against the counter. His hair looks messier, but in artfully tousled way, and his eyes seem just a little bloodshot. 

“That,” Dorian says, closing his eyes for a moment like he’s forgotten something. “I want that on my ass.”

Bull can’t help the grin he gives him, and the little extra lean he takes over the counter, so he can see it. It’s round and lush, and truthfully, it’s not the sort of ass he’d say no to in the proper context. When Bull looks back up, Sera’s mouth is open and producing a squeal so high and happy that he can barely hear it. Dorian turns red once his cognitive abilities catch up. 

“Nooo,” He says, burying his face in his hands. “I meant a tattoo.” 

“Mhm,” Bull says. “Come back tomorrow, big guy, and we’ll see if you still want your cattle brand.”

Dorian does not so much leave as he is dragged, hand still over his face, while Sera cackles at him. Bull is entirely sure he’s never going to see them again. 

 

\---

 

Sera is at the counter the next day, bang on quarter to noon. Dorian is standing by her side, left hand on his elbow, right hand on his face. 

“Ok so, I still want a tattoo on my tits, but my girlfriend said I should start with like a tiny loveheart and work up,” Sera says. 

“How are you not hungover?” Bull asks. 

“Hangovers are for the weak,” She says. 

Dorian whimpers. 

“He’s weak,” She adds. 

“Does, uh, does he still want to talk about getting my name on his ass, because we should talk placement.”

Dorian whimpers even more, head ducking further. 

“Probably work better if we put the ‘The’ above your ass crack, because otherwise you’ll have ‘Ir’ and ‘on’ on two different cheeks and it’ll look weird.”

He mumbles something and Sera leans her ear in. 

“What was that?” Sera asks, gleeful. 

“I am so, so sorry,” Dorian says. 

He’s still not looking up. 

“It’s not so bad,” Bull says. “Little fast for my tastes, but I’m always open to expressions of interest.”

Dorian looks up, and there’s something fierce in his eyes. Bull cocks a brow at him and it fades slightly. It’s cute, almost, seeing him be challenging even when he’s in the wrong.

“Hardly, but it was rude and I shouldn’t have done it. I apologize.”

Bull looks at Sera and she smiles, showing her teeth. 

“I thought it was great,” She says. “Are you gonna put a heart on my boob or not?”

He should say no. He really should say no, but it’s small and she’ll be able to hide it, so he lets it slide. He pulls out their new client forms and smacks them on the counter in front of her. 

“Sign the forms, look in our catalogue, and pick a heart and a titty,” Bull says. 

“Oh, Sera, are you sure you want to do this?” Dorian asks. “You don’t want a repeat of the Incident. You can’t take this back.”

“Couldn’t take that back either, we just got rid of it,” She says, cryptically. 

Dorian groans and turns on his heel, walking out of the parlor with the air of a broken man. Bull watches him go and he enjoys it.

“I’ll be in the cafe across the street,” Dorian says, as he walks out. “Text me when you’re done.”

“Eh,” Sera replies, flicking through the papers Bull’s given her. 

After a moment her eyes flick up. 

“He’s already got a tattoo, you know,” She says. 

“Uh huh,” Bull replies. 

“Of a snake.”

“Mhm.”

“On his lower back.”

Everything halts while Bull considers the possibilities. 

“He likes it up the butt, is what I’m getting at,” She says. 

“Please don’t ruin it,” Bull replies. 

“You do discounts?” She asks, now scribbling things down on her forms.

“Nope.”

She holds up a slip of paper with a number on it. 

“He likes big strong guys, know that for a fact,” She says. 

She waves the note between her fingers. She shimmies her shoulders a little too, for effect. 

“No,” Bull says. 

“He loves giving oral and he’s got like no gag reflex,” She says. “And I caught him at it once so I know it’s true.”

Bull plucks the paper from her grasp and she squawks. He folds it neatly and tucks it in his own pocket. 

“Full price,” Bull says. “And I don’t tell him you told me that.”

Sera growls. 

“Deal,” She says. 

 


	20. Dragon AU, Bull and Dorian's first fight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 23 Oct edit: I changed a few lines because they initially equated monogamy with commitment. I didn't think about it at all when I wrote it, and I'm sorry for doing it. I've made their relationship and its agreements a bit clearer now.

Bull had never been in a romantic, exclusive relationship before. Caring, short-term sexual relationships had been his mainstay, as had platonic friendship and brotherhood and sisterhood and all that. He’d expected a very gentle learning curve, if at all, because he was relaxed and good with people.

He hadn’t expected those qualities to be the ones that sunk him. 

“What?” Bull asked. 

Krem was looking at him with sympathy and horror, his eyes flicking to Dorian every other second. Dorian looked aggressively neutral, which Bull had thought was an oxymoron prior to meeting him. 

“What did I do?” Bull asked again. “Is there something in my teeth?”

“I’m afraid I just remembered a prior engagement,” Dorian said. “Enjoy your evening.”

“Hey, come on,” Bull said.

He reached for Dorian as he walked past, and Dorian side stepped out of his grip. Dorian kept his head up and his back ramrod straight, as tense as he’d been when he was hiding megafauna from the entire keep. 

“That was cold, Chief,” Krem said. 

“What did I do?” Bull asked. 

Krem just shook his head sadly and finished his beer. 

 

\---

 

Bull couldn’t sleep. He’d closed the curtains and shifted the bed, but he still couldn’t sleep. He could hear BTD breathing. 

He got out of bed and pushed the curtains to the side. She was pressed up against the window, her one good eye bearing down on him. Bull heard the click of her fire in her throat and took a moment to thank Koslun for his hard-won insensitivity to such a terrifying sound. 

“Alright,” Bull said, cracking the window. “What did I do?”

BTD snorted at him. She cocked her head to the side as if to say ‘isn’t it fucking obvious?’. Bull thought about it. 

“It’s because I was friendly with the waitress, wasn’t it?”

BTD looked up at the sky, as if entreating to a higher power. Her expression, once she looked back down, was dry. 

“I didn’t mean anything by it.”

She shook her head, but it didn’t seem like she was sympathizing with him. 

“I should talk about this with him,” Bull said. 

BTD’s lips curled and Bull got a very good look at a mouth full of sharp teeth. Healthy, numerous, blade-like teeth. It looked like there was something caught in them...

“So that’s where my armor went,” Bull said. 

 

\---

 

Eustace wasn’t speaking to him. Not that Eustace ever spoke, but they’d gotten to a fairly friendly place in their relationship, and Bull could see no current evidence of it. It was a bit hard to tell while Eustace was refusing to look at him  _and_  blocking Dorian’s door. 

“I need to speak with him, Eustace, come on,” Bull said. 

Eustace shook his head, but Bull could see his eyes flicking between Bull and Dorian’s room. 

“Eustace...”

Eustace shook his head again and closed his eyes. 

“Even if you can’t see me, I’m still here.”

Eustace raised his front paws and put them over his ears. 

It was adorable and frustrating. Mainly frustrating. Bull would’ve just moved him out of the way, but Eustace weighed a literal tonne and the only way Bull was moving him anywhere was if he allowed it or if Bull managed to roll him. 

Or if Bull played dirty against the dragon equivalent of a ten year old child. 

“The library cat had kittens,” Bull said. 

Eustace’s head shot up, his eyes filled with youthful curiosity, but he shook himself before it overcame him, and once again buried his ears. He started making chuffing noises under his breath. 

“One of them was a calico,” Bull said, and the chuffing got louder. “Its tail puffs up whenever it sees anyone.”

Dorian’s door opened. Behind it was Dorian, looking very unimpressed. 

“Stop being mean to him.” Dorian said. 

Eustace had slumped onto the floor, depressed at his apparent failure. He looked kind of like a pancake. 

“Eustace, thank you for your help, you did a wonderful job. Why don’t you take a break and go look at the kittens?”

Bull hadn’t known dragons could smile until he’d met Eustace. He wasn’t sure if it was just Eustace, because he smiled all the damn time, but BTD hadn’t been seen to do so even once. She was a bit old and careworn for reckless smiling though. 

“So,” Bull said. “Can we talk?”

Dorian waved one of his crossed arms outward, wrist twisting as if to say ‘go on you pillock’. 

“Could we talk inside?” Bull asked. 

Dorian made a disgusted noise that would’ve done Cassandra proud. He shook his head, but when he turned back into his rooms, he left the door open behind him. 

“Alright then,” Bull said. 

 

\---

 

“I’m sorry, I just wasn’t thinking.”

“Uh huh,” Dorian said. 

“I don’t want to be with anyone but you.”

“Uh huh,” Dorian said. 

“I’ve always flirted with people, and I didn’t think about how that might change if I committed to someone in a monogamous way.”

“Uh huh,” Dorian said. 

“You doing alright there?” Bull asked, Dorian’s hips hitched up under his, his larger body curled over Dorian’s back. 

Dorian held his thumb up for a moment, before dropping it back to the sheets. His entire back was glistening with sweat. It made him look sparkly. 

“I’m sorry I hurt you,” Bull said, adjusting his grip. “I think maybe we should have a talk about what our expectations are, so we know what we both need.”

Dorian made a high pitched noise in the back of his throat. 

 

\---

 

Bull opened Dorian’s window after Dorian fell asleep. BTD was pressed right against the pane, looking furious. 

“He says shitty things to me too, sometimes, you know?” Bull said. “We talked through it, let it go.”

BTD blew smoke in his eyes and Bull closed the window again.


End file.
